


Buying the Time on My Knees

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Nathan Lives, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon-Typical Violence, Dentistry, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Infidelity, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Pegging, Surprise Pairing, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 87,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: After he joins the CIA, John stays in touch with Jessica as best he can without endangering her marriage or alerting the agency. He doesn't realise that these breaks from his professional life are as much a respite for Jess as they are for him.Meanwhile, Jessica's number keeps coming up and Nathan has a plan to keep her safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete at 80K and will be updated weekly. All the ships mentioned do happen, but some of them not for a long while. (Harold/John doesn't happen for a long while, for example, but it gets there.) 
> 
> Dubcon warning is for the Kara/John relationship, which gets dicey from time to time. 
> 
> Thank you to lilacsigil and talkingtothesky, who both helped me get this behemoth finished.
> 
> Title is from Iron and Wine's song, House by the Sea

In a good year, they saw each other three or four times. John didn't operate inside the US very often, and there had to be a perfect concurrence of events for an assignation to work: John had to be on the East Coast, Jess had to be able to get away without making Peter suspicious. Infidelity was as much about scheduling as it was about deceit, John had learned quickly, and they were both cheating on someone. For him, it was an entire agency. 

He always knew better than to approach New Rochelle. Theoretically, agents were always under scrutiny when they were on home turf. Realistically though, the only person he had to fear was Kara, and this time she wasn't even in the country: Mark had sent her on a solo mission in Haifa. It was the kind of mission Kara particularly relished. John knew she wouldn't be rushing home in a hurry. 

There were plenty of places between Manhattan and New Rochelle, and they'd had years to work out a routine, so in the back seat of a cab, John pulled a sim card from a tiny nick in the leather of his belt, slipped it into a new burner phone and sent a text to Jess. 

_Staff meeting today?_ he said. 

Jess had taken easily to coded messages. She never talked much about her fiancé but John had picked up on the fact that he was more than a little snoopy. The second time they'd met, Jess had come without a phone because Peter had installed some GPS tracker app on it and had all kinds of questions about why she'd spent an hour and a half in the middle of town. 

"I didn't know what to tell him," Jess had said, that second time, as she took off her jewellery, slipped her engagement ring off her finger. "I said I started my period early, and I just wanted to curl up and die." She made a face. "He's kind of squeamish about girly stuff. It's the best way to get him to drop a subject." 

They had an agreement not to discuss her engagement. Jess had been very clear: if John wasn't able to make a lifetime commitment to her (and he wasn't, not when he could be killed at any moment), then she would make a life with Peter, and have fun with John for as long as they could. John hadn't said much that night she came without her phone – after all, Jess was here, and she was beautiful, he wanted to make the most of his time – but while she slept, he went out to get her a burner phone, taught her how to wipe the GPS data and tower signals so that even if Peter found the phone, he'd never know where she'd been with it. 

"Leave it in the car, wipe the call history every time you use it, and tell him you had to buy a spare when you left your phone at home," John said, then pressed it into her palm. 

Jess held it there for a moment, as if making a decision, then closed her fingers around it. She leaned over the bed and dropped it into her overnight bag. When she sat up straight, it was with that expression, the one that made John melt. She reached up for the front of his shirt and pulled him to his knees between her legs. "Get to work, soldier," she said, and he did. He always did. 

In the cab, his phone jumped. _4:30 in the conference room,_ , came the answering text. That told John which hotel, and what time. He leaned forward to give the driver directions. The phone buzzed again and he checked it, surprised. There shouldn't be a need for more messages. 

_You'd better have done your prep work,_ Jess said. John's stomach dropped, a pleasant, adrenalised squirm. She must be in a hell of a mood, he thought, if that was what she wanted tonight. 

At the hotel, he washed, shaved, brushed his teeth, gingerly poked the bruise spreading across his ribs courtesy of a Romanian forger who had caught him unexpectedly with a crow bar. He was supposed to be getting an x-ray to make sure there was no break, but he'd chosen to spend that time with Jess instead. It wasn't like they were going to give him time to heal properly anyway; he may as well do something he enjoyed. 

Preparation time, he told himself, and reached for the lube. Jessica would expect him to be open and ready for her. Sometimes she liked to do this part herself – moving her fingers in and out of his ass, working him open while she told him how much she wanted to fuck him. Other times, she wanted to walk right in and find him on the bed, legs spread, head down and ass high like he was begging for her to take him. John didn't have a preference: for him, the thrill came from the expression of control on Jess's face as he obeyed and obeyed and obeyed. She was always proud of him, so delighted by him, and when (if) she rode him, she gripped him, tight and hot and powerful. 

He propped one leg up on the bathtub, and slipped a lube-covered finger into his ass. His cock, half-hard since he arrived in the hotel room, swiftly came to attention, jutting upward against his belly while he fingered himself, all the while thinking about Jess, getting ready for Jess, getting ready for Jess to fuck him.

By the time he heard Jess swipe her key through the door, he was lying on his belly on a wide bath sheet spread over the coverlet. She came into the room, busied herself with arranging her things on the counter, fussing with her hair, freshening up her lipstick, all while John waited, his legs spread and his ass open for her. Finally she turned in his direction, and for all her faked detachment, John heard a soft noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan. He buried his face in his arms, hiding his pleased smile and trying not to grind himself into the bed. 

"God, you're beautiful," she said. When she touched him – gently, so gently – it was a possessive thing, the way she'd stroke a horse's flank. When she got to the bruises, the roleplay slipped. 

"John, Jesus!" She brushed a finger over the mottled skin. "Did you get this x-rayed?" 

He turned sideways to watch her. "I'll do it when I get back to the city," he said. "I can do that while they're watching me. Not this." He grinned at her, showing teeth. "I'd rather be here with you."

"Hm," said Jess, unconvinced. "Are you sure you're okay for this?" 

"It's nothing. I'm fine. I promise." To show her how ready he was, John leaned into her, so her fingertips pressed hard on the bruise. The pain was both sharp and deep, and it made his cock jump. He let out a moan, low and breathy and obviously aroused. He heard Jess breathe heavy behind him, despite her worry. 

"You know what?" she said, letting her fingers drift back to his ass. "You're fucking insatiable, that's what you are." Her fingers slipped inside him easily, showing how well he'd prepared himself for her, and she sighed. John pushed back, arching up to take more of her in – she'd fisted him once, and he'd come so hard he'd seen stars for minutes – but she pressed down on his hip to keep him still so she could scissor her fingers, open him wider. "I love how you take this," she said. "You want it so much. I wish I'd seen this side of you sooner." 

"Unnnh," said John, backside high in the air while she fingered him. "We were practically kids," he said. "The hell did we know about kinky sex, beyond Playboys and cheerleader fantasies?"

Jess let him go, shed her clothes and unzipped her bag. "I had this crush on Catwoman," she said. John heard her take out a harness: the metal buckles clattered together. He took a few deep breaths, smelled the leather dressing she used on her gear, felt his head swim. 

"I didn't have the words for what made me feel that way," Jess continued. "I guess I wanted to fight with her, or fuck her, or for her to tie me up and fuck me, I don't know." She came over to face him, the harness sitting low on her hips. She lined three dildos up on the bedside table. "Choose your poison, soldier, and I'll load up." 

John considered the three things that could fuck him tonight. They were all of them big; Jessica wasn't shy about her tastes, and she liked to see John squirm. The first – the narrowest – was basically three big balls, and he knew Jess would want to push them in slowly, watch his ass open to admit each one, then again to release them. John was in the mood for a hard, fast fuck, though, and when Jess used this thing, she went excruciatingly slow. The second was familiar: bright red, a good size, thick and hefty with a bulging head. John had taken it before; Jessica wielded it like a jackhammer, slamming it into him over and over. The third one was new: huge and gnarled, so wide he doubted Jess could circle her fingers around it. At the sight of it he swallowed, throat dry, and she stroked his hair to soothe him, fingers spread wide. He pointed at the middle one: it was big enough that was going to burn but not so big that Jess would have to be gentle to work it inside him. 

"Sure, baby," she said, kindly. "I know how you like that one inside you." 

John propped himself on his elbows and let his head hang. He heard the snap of the harness, and Jess's low groan as she seated the thing right where it would rub against her clit. She walked around the room a bit, to make sure that it was in place securely, and then stood at his bedside, waited there expectant, her legs spread and her arms crossed.

John raised his eyebrows at her, enquiring. 

She stroked a hand up and down the red cock. "Are you as good with your mouth on a cock as you are with my cunt?"

"You want some references?" John said, batting his eyelashes, affecting a coy expression. "I've got some numbers you can call…" He gasped as Jess grabbed his hair and forced him to arch backwards. 

"Stop bragging and get this in your throat," she said, stepping closer to the bed. 

John laughed and slid off the bed to kneel in front of her, like he would if she were a man. He trailed his hands up her thighs until he reached the cock, which he held with a firm and confident grip, moving his hand up and down as if jacking it would feel as good to her as it would to him. When he looked up at her through his eyelashes, she was watching him, hypnotised, flushed, her mouth open as she ground her clit against the end of the cock. 

John turned up the drama, sucking hard as he drew back on the cock, making his cheeks hollow, rolling the head around on his tongue, until Jess's legs trembled and she let out a low sound. He'd done this on missions, with targets being set up for blackmail, he'd done this for his own pleasure in filthy toilet stalls and dark, sweaty bars, but he rarely let Jess see this part of him, the part that knew what men liked, knew how to please them, how to work a cock deep in his mouth. When he felt her hand slide through his hair, he let her push him down and down onto the red dildo, until it was past the back of his throat, until he was swallowing with the gulping sound of deep throating. He could see how much this turned her on, and it make him want to take more, work harder, be as filthy and debauched as he could imagine, just to hear those noises she was making, to see her mouth open and her breath coming short and heavy. To smell how wet she was. He got the cock all the way down, and with an experimental nudge, tried to push it hard against her clit, tried to grind it on her through the harness. 

Her eyes closed for a moment then she pushed him away, her expression filled with need. "Get on the bed, go." She gave him a shove on the shoulder, meant to topple him, but she couldn't really move him if he didn't want to be moved. Right now, entranced by her, John merely swayed. Then he realised what she had said, and scrambled to get up on the bed, get his legs open wide. 

On the bed, his skin prickled, hyperaware of sensation: the warmth of the air, the scratchy towel under his knees, the quiet ache of his ribs from moving too quickly. When Jessica touched him again, her nails scratching gently over his back, he jumped, breathed out, then rested his forehead on his folded arms. Once she was behind him, she pushed his cheeks apart, leaned her weight on him to make sure he understood she didn't want him to fight. John waited, poised, and tried not to flinch when she pushed the crown of the dildo inside him. 

It slipped into him without hesitation: he had done his prep work after all. As it entered him, he groaned, a low and guttural sound that felt like it came all the way from his heels. When they'd started this a few months ago, Jess had been cautious, careful, unsure of herself and worried that she'd hurt him somehow, but now she knew him, and knew what he could take. She eased the dildo in all the way, not fast but definitely not backing off at all. There was no back and forth on that first stroke: all John got to do was take it, and take it more. Finally he felt the smooth skin of her thighs against his, and the heaviness of her breasts on his back. He trembled – not because of fatigue; physically he could stay in this position for hours – but because this was Jess, this was Jess inside him, and he was safe. She knew him, and he could feel what he wanted, express what he wanted without being guarded or worrying that there would be consequences later. The only consequences would be his pleasure, and Jess's. 

Jess started a steady back and forth, shifting slightly with each thrust, feeling her way for the right angle. John moaned on each stroke, widening the spread of his legs and deepening the lewd arch of his back, showing Jess how much he wanted her inside him, how much he needed her. His cock pressed up against his belly hard and hot, and he longed to take hold of it, but that was for Jess to decide. All John had to do was feel. When Jess found the right way to hit his sweet spot and settled on a long swift stroke, thumping hard against his legs, he let the sounds escape him uncontrolled: a long, low syllable that went on and on. He drifted away on the pleasure, felt it boiling inside him, driven on by Jess's cries from behind him as she rubbed herself to orgasm against him, inside him. When it felt like she'd been fucking him for hours, she finally took his cock in her hand, moved her fist smoothly, finding exactly the rhythm to take him over the edge. 

"That's it, that's it, John. Yeah." Her voice was close to his ear, her breasts pressed close to him, and he turned in her direction so she could see how utterly destroyed he was by her, how much of him she held right now. 

When he finished coming, he flopped face down on the bed with her splayed on top of him. She lay there a moment, then she giggled at the ridiculousness of their position: John's exaggerated position, arms and legs akimbo, as if her slender body had squashed him flat. She kissed him between his shoulder blades, and he smiled sleepily, half gone already, then she slipped off him, reached for one of the towels from the pile by the bed, and started clean-up. 

There was a moment, just before their bodies separated, when John would have said, "I love you." They'd made an agreement not to say that – well, more correctly, Jess had said she didn't want to hear it – so John let it go, simply felt the absence of it while he floated, tranquil and relaxed, until Jess pushed at his side, avoiding the bruises. 

"Come on, you big lug. I want to cuddle." 

John groaned dramatically but rolled off the bed and pulled the covers away so they could slide between the sheets. He wrapped his arms around Jess, pushed his body against her, breathed in the smell of her hair, and the bliss held for a little while longer. 

Later, after Jess had slept and John had dozed, she lay against him, hand on his chest, head tucked under his. 

"Have you slept with many guys?" she asked, idly. There was no judgment in the question, John knew. There were no promises between them, no expectation of fidelity. 

He shifted onto his hip so he could face her. "A few," he said. "Sometimes work, sometimes…" he wanted to say pleasure, but it wasn't that, and he wouldn't lie to her. "Sometimes because I want to let go of everything." 

She traced his mouth while he was speaking. "I want to watch," she said. "Sometime, if we can set it up." Her hair slipped over her face and she looked at him through tangled strands, a dozen colours of wood and sun and sand. 

That complicated things for John. "Set what up?" he said. He pushed his hand through her hair, and she hissed, pulled sharply away from him. Mood broken, he sat up, pulled her with him. 

Colour flooded her face. "It's stupid," she said, rubbing at her scalp. "It's nothing." 

"Let me see," John said, but she tipped her head out of reach.

She stood up, where he couldn’t touch her. "I caught my hair in the hinge of the closet at home, and it's still sore. And I feel stupid about it – you're like a big cat, you'd never do something that clumsy." She walked to the bathroom, gazed over her shoulder at him, her expression coy, as if she hadn't just reamed his ass with a red dildo. "Wanna take a shower with me?" 

She rode him in the shower, with John's arms braced around her while she clenched hard on him. Afterwards, while she dried her hair, straightening all the curl out of it, he sat on the edge of the tub, leaning into her, stroking her belly. 

"So, if I put something out on Angler, would that be safe?" Jess said. "I mean, safe from work. Not, you know, safe from having sex with a stranger. I can manage that kind of thing just fine." 

John was still in a post-coital daze, warm and languid from fucking in the shower, his skin tingling. "If you give me enough warning," he said. "I'll do the background checks, make sure it's all on the level." He watched while she pulled her hair into a ponytail. "What kind of guy are you going to find for me?" he asked, curious and idly turned on by the idea. 

"Oh, seven hundred pounds, loads of body hair, hibernates through winter," she said. "Likes to catch salmon with his paws." She laughed, and reached for her makeup bag. "I'll know when I see the right one," she said. "I'll put out some feelers on Angler; it's pretty good with profiles. Are you going to let me go? Or do you want me to make you up, too?" 

John sighed. Time to go back to the real world. He stood, kissed the back of her neck, and went to dress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica matches on Angler with someone interested in a threesome. John investigates this mystery man.

The leaves were starting to turn the next time John made it back to the US. He'd hauled Kara, bleeding and unconscious, across the border to the safety of the US Embassy in Seoul. She was going to be in the hospital there for a few weeks; with a collapsed lung and a bleed on the brain, she wouldn't be going on a plane for a while. 

"Get out of here," she said to John, on the first day that she'd been consistently conscious for more than an hour at a time. He had run interference for her until she started remembering where she was, otherwise Kara would probably have killed a nurse. 

"I'm serious. If I have to watch you lurking for another second, I'll give up breathing now. You're like the prettiest grim reaper." 

He'd flown to Berlin, where Mark was busy infiltrating a terrorist cell, and didn't have time for him. 

"You're too tall and Aryan to fit into this scene," he said, by the dumpsters behind a Turkish restaurant. "Go back to DC and make some reports, justify the tax dollars they give us." 

John didn't even make it to Langley; he landed at JFK at midnight instead and disappeared into the crowd. He was pulling up to a cheap motel halfway to New Rochelle in time for breakfast. Jess was waiting for him in the parking lot behind the row of brick rooms, a gravel wasteland with a scrubby collection of greenery that had once been a hedge.

"This place is giving me serious flashbacks to prom night," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and swaying from side to side in a slow dance. "My date got a motel room, and I thought we were the height of sophistication, when everyone else was in the back of their trucks." 

"I didn't have a truck," he said, then kissed her silent. He didn't want to talk about that night, how he'd been allowed to borrow the family sedan, how his mom had pressed a handful of notes into his palm and made him promise not to go to any of the local lover's lanes. "Do you have a room?" 

She shook her head. "Forgot to stop at the ATM." She looked at him through her hair, smiling, wicked, fingers toying with a button on her sweater. "Kinda lost my head when I realised we'd have almost all day together." 

Her breeziness seemed forced, and John felt his stomach clench as he jogged to the reception desk. While the bored clerk coded his room card, he put that little pinch of anxiety down to a combination of jet lag and the shock of recollection, of having his family's faces up before his eyes unexpectedly. 

Inside the room, there was a weird awkward moment while they shed their clothes. Jess seemed self-conscious, fussing with her hair, not meeting his eyes. John forced himself to put nostalgia aside. They weren't those people anymore and those memories didn't have to haunt them. Then he caught her hand and kissed each knuckle, one by one, until she laughed and stepped close again. 

"I wish I'd gotten myself together faster this morning. I've been thinking, I want you to show me how to tie you so you can't get free," Jess said, while she peeled his shirt off his shoulders. The motel was close to a freeway, and the constant roar of fast-moving traffic sounded like the ocean. John breathed in, his mouth hovering above the curve of her shoulder, tracing the tan lines on her back with his fingertips. She'd worn a halter neck swimsuit sometime this summer. 

Jess kissed him above his collarbone, standing up on tiptoe to reach. "Come on," she said. "I'm guessing there's no point in handcuffs, so show me how to make you really hold still." 

She slipped his shirt on. It hung far past her fingertips; John could see her tan through the fine cotton. 

He breathed out and scruffed his hands through his own hair, looking around the sparse room. "Well, maybe there's something we can use here." 

"Hm," Jess said. She turned in a circle. The shirt brushed the back of her thighs, and John felt his concentration wander. He reached for the shirttails, but she brushed him away, still thinking. When she dived for the telephone, John had one brief glimpse of her ass, smooth and tan, and he grinned. 

"What about this?" She pulled on the cable and looped it around her four fingers, pulled it taut with a snap. 

John weighed it up. Telephone cable would bruise, and Kara would have questions. Then again, it was just as likely that Kara would be bored, depending on how mundane and suburban the bruises turned out. 

"Makes a good garotte," he said, finally, but she whacked him on the arm, hard. 

"I'm serious!" she said. "I want to make sure you can't move." She shrugged a shoulder. "Okay, I'm not stupid – I know you can probably get out of anything. But give me the best chance." 

Completely naked, John felt a lot more vulnerable than she probably did when he crouched down and unhooked the phone. He wound the cable swiftly around his hand, tested the strength of it, and searched for anchor points on the bed. 

"You want to do this kind of stuff, we're going to have to pick a classier place with stronger furniture," he said, standing on the bed, testing the header. It was glued down to the wall; he'd pull that away in a second. 

He settled for using the castors under the bed, arms splayed out to each side. Jess worked diligently, tying the knots he had shown her were best with covered wire, tensioning the cable capably under the bed. John could get out of it fairly easily – she hadn't thought about his legs, for one thing – but he was content to watch Jess work, a crease between her brows as she concentrated. John knew she'd gone fishing with her dad as a kid, and he saw that now in the instinctive way she turned and folded the cable. Nursing had made her fingers strong and sure. When he was secured, she climbed on the bed, straddling his hips. 

"I love you like this," she said, stroking the muscles in his chest and arms, pressing hard with pointed fingertips. John sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow when she took a nipple between finger and thumb, teased and rolled it. Jess never made comment about his scars, rarely mentioned the fresh bruises, except when she was worried that she might hurt him more. It was an unexpected relief not to have to lie about it, and even more of a relief not to have to tell her everything. 

Right now, Jess delighted in his immobility, sliding her hands under his hips, arching back so her hair brushed the top of his thighs. She seemed happy this time to tease him, long and slow, with no particular goal ahead but her own enjoyment. If he wanted, he could lift his legs, trap her between his knees, but he was content to lie there, flat on his back and pleasantly hard in a dingy motel room while traffic zoomed past. 

After a while, she slipped further down his hips, slid her cunt along the hard length of his cock, rubbed herself on him, leaving him wet and exposed. His breathing was heavier, and hoarse sounds came from his throat when she pushed her clit against the head of his cock and moved bare millimetres back and forth. To please her, he flexed his arms in frustration, as if he wanted to grab her and bring her down on him properly. She bit her lip, and intensified her movements, watching him struggle beneath her, hard and aroused and increasingly frustrated. 

Eventually, she fucked him like that, slow and dreamy, taking her own time moving up and down on his cock like he existed just to please her. John could think of worse ways to spend time, so for a long while he played along, lying there while she used him, playing with her own clit, circling a nipple with one hand, eyes ahead and unfocused. When it got too much, though, he arched under her, trying to urge her to move faster, wanting her closer to him. She gazed down at him from a great height and frowned. 

"You don't get to decide this," she said, and her voice took a warning tone. "Do you want me to stop?" She slowed her rhythm to nothing, sitting astride with him still inside her, and yet she seemed distant, cold.

John felt his skin prickle awake as professional instinct kicked in. Something was very wrong and he didn't have enough information to figure out what. The worst thing was that his strategic brain – that part of himself that kept him and Kara safe on missions – leapt into action: threat analysis, potential weapons available, exit plans. If a team burst through the door right now, how fast could he get free, and get Jess safe?

"Hey," he said, trying to make it warm and engaging. "You okay?" He hated the way his mind had started reading the situation, judging every single expression on Jess's face. He hated that he knew exactly how long he could stay hard, even if he wasn't in the mood. Hated that he was good enough at this that she couldn't pick that she was being played, not even when he was inside her. 

She touched his cheek, cupped his face. He knew a second before her hand flew out that she was going to slap him, and he held perfectly still, stopped the reflex response to free himself and immobilise her. The impact stung, and he closed his eyes against the next slap.

Jess started a slow rocking movement with her hips, and this time she urged him on with her knees. Eyes still closed, he found her rhythm and rocked with her, arms spread out to each side, pulling on the phone cable. Another slap, and the pattern started to build within him: the clench of her body when she drew her arm back, the sway as she brought it down, the stinging burn of her palm, and all the while the gentle rocking of her hips. 

John kept his mouth shut, determined that she would be the first one to make a sound. When she did, it was deep and hoarse. He opened his eyes, and found her watching him intently, arching her long body over his, shielding them both with a curtain of hair. She put her palms on his chest, working intently with her hips, and he eased back on his own control, put the spy aside, told himself it was okay to let go. When Jess came, it was silent and strong. Gasping for breath, sweating in the tiny airless motel room, she clenched all around him, back rounded and grinding against him. Then, leaning hard on his chest, she nodded at him, a permission he hadn't been expecting. Bewildered and oddly exhausted, he came at her command. She sighed, as if his release was her own all over again. 

They sat together like that for a few minutes, while sweat chilled on John's skin, along the lengths of his arms. Then he popped his thumb joint and slipped free of the binding, reaching tentatively for her. When she saw his hand free, she laughed weakly, an unhappy noise, but she took it and pressed her cheek into it. He shook himself free from the cable and wrapped both arms around her, curling his body around hers, dragging the blanket up over both of them. Eventually, Jess' body softened into sleep. 

John held her for a while, waiting until she was deeply under, then, hating himself, he got out of bed and rifled through her things. By now she knew better than to bring her usual phone, but there were plenty of ordinary things that people carried with them, things that spoke volumes about their lives. Jess carried a nail repair kit, lipgloss and chapstick. Her keyring had a barcoded tag for a gym, a discount grocery tag. Her wallet held only loose change and a couple of five dollar bills. In a Ziploc bag there were a few tampons, a couple of Advil and three loose pale blue pills. John shook one out: it had bevelled edges and a pharmaceutical imprint. He scratched a tiny fragment off and touched it to his tongue: the bitter chalky taste of diazepam. He slipped the pill back in the bag and tucked it away. At the bottom of the bag under a folded faux-silk scarf, his fingers brushed something heavy and round. When he drew his hand out, he held her wedding ring. Hating himself, but unable to stop, John pored over it, tried to imagine buying it, what it would be like to be that person. On his outstretched palm, it gleamed rich and yellow, and his professional eye told him it was 18K, an that it would have been pricey for someone in Peter's wage bracket. Words were etched deeply on the inner curve of the gold, in square capitals. John tilted the ring so it caught the light: _Mine forever, Peter._ Skin crawling, he pushed the thing back into Jessica's purse. 

Jessica turned over, still sleeping but slowly coming back to awareness. John put everything back in position. He picked up her burner phone and switched it on, checking for missed calls or coded texts (apart from his own) that might indicate she had been recruited or blackmailed by someone. There was nothing out of the ordinary, though. Jess' search history was minimal, mostly directions to this motel or another. The icon for Angler stared up at him, with a little red notification on it. Curious now rather than concerned, John opened the app, and a message loaded, unfortunately with a bright little chirrup. He glanced over at Jess, who watched him now through her hair. 

"So, do you have a date?" she said with a wicked grin, and he could hear her mood had lifted, and that she was laughing at him. She sat up in the messy bed, knees curled up under the rumpled sheets, her hair falling tousled over her shoulders. John brought the phone back to bed with him, and she made room for him to slide in next to her. Her body was warm, the bed smelled of the two of them, and for a moment, it was ten years ago on a quick getaway break from the base. Jess took the phone from him, and John leaned down to kiss her, snaked his hands under the sheets. 

"Wait, wait!" Jess batted at his shoulders, giggling but insistent. "I want to read this!" 

John peered at the screen, saw an older man's face. "Is this the guy you're trying to set me up with?" 

"Mmhm." Jess typed rapidly with her thumbs. "We've been chatting for a bit. I said you have an unpredictable schedule. He says he does too, so that's fine."

Being talked about like that gave John the professional heebie-jeebies. He took the phone and enlarged the photo, examining it. For a moment, he thought the man must be a soldier: a spray of scars across the right side of his face said that he'd caught shrapnel from an explosion, though nothing about his posture suggested a military background. He wasn't unattractive, but there was a carefully maintained look to him: he'd had a very good eye lift in the last five years, and his hair was expensively styled to appear unstyled. He was fair, with a patrician nose but slightly weak chin. The open-necked polo shirt was casual, but the photo had been taken in a professional catering tent, and the exceptionally tasteful table arrangement visible just over his shoulder smacked of some outdoors charity event. In the photo, he smiled with just the right amount of easy-going self-deprecation, though the creases around his mouth said that he smiled more than he had to, and his brow didn't have the tight, shiny appearance of someone who uses botox to erase his expression. 

"He seems familiar," John said, passing the phone back. "What's his name?" 

Jess laughed. "He's calling himself John for now. I told him that only works if he's going to pay me to let him fuck you." She looked at him over the top of her phone. "Don't pretend like that doesn't turn you on," she said. "I know that face."

John shifted, pressed against her thigh. "Well, when you put it that way," he said. "I guess it doesn't matter if he's my type or not." 

"That's right," said Jess. "This is all about what I want, and I want to see him take you." She put the phone down so she could run her fingers through his hair and pull him close. "The only veto I'm giving you is if he turns out to be a terrorist. Or a master spy." She pushed his head down under the sheets and he let her.

"So," John said, pressing soft kisses into her belly as he shifted down the bed. "What happens on this date, exactly?" 

Jess laughed and spread her legs. She pushed the sheets back so she could watch him eat her. "Oh, there'll probably be wine," she said. "If he's rich, he can get the honeymoon suite at some luxury place…" Her breath caught and she pushed up against his mouth. "Ah… I really want to see you in his arms, see you suck his cock," she said. "And…" she trailed off, panting, distracted, eyes closed. 

John had two fingers inside her now while he worked her clit, exactly the way she liked it, with the broad flat of his tongue. He paused, looking up at her with raised eyebrows, waiting for more, and Jess shrieked at him, pushed his head back down. 

"Okay, okay," she said, with one arm thrown over her forehead. "When you've sucked him, got him really hard, I think… I'll tell him to bend you over the arm of a chair. Or maybe if there's a table? Bending you over, anyway. Maybe he's still in his suit. His hands on your back, his cock inside you. Your face, when he takes you…" She surged upwards, coming, knees gripping his shoulders. At that point, John would have let anyone she said fuck him, if it meant he got to hear Jess make those sounds, see the expression on her face. She pulled at his arms, dragged him up so she could wrap her legs around his hips, get him deep inside her, and John stopped worrying. 

They had to order takeout; Jess didn't want to chance getting recognised at a diner or a drive-through, even this far away from home. They sat cross-legged on the bed, eating Thai, drinking cold beer. 

"We'll need to be more careful next time. Peter's going to be working from home more now," Jess said into the quiet room. There was no inflection on the words – no excitement, no despair. Just a statement of fact. Still, John felt a guilty thrill at the idea that Jess still wanted to see him. 

"You'll be okay with that?" he said. He had to be so careful, had to make sure she was certain, that he hadn't persuaded her to carry on with this affair. Of the two of them, she was going to get to do all the normal things. He would never let his choices mar that for her. 

Jess nodded, forking more noodles into her mouth. "It's not the life I would have wished for us," she said. "I wish we could have had all this, the wedding, the house, the white picket fence. But if this is the only way we can be together, then I'll take it. If this is how I get to love you, then that's how it is." She finished her beer and pitched it into the trash. As she did, John saw the clear imprint of fingers on her upper arm: purplish red, angry and fresh. 

Something must have shown in her expression, because she looked worried, questioning. 

"I'm sorry," said John, passing her another can and pointing at the bruise. "I didn't realise I grabbed you like that. Ice it, it will probably go down before you have to go back." 

She held her arm up to examine it, rubbed the cold can against the bruise. "Don't apologise," she said. "Not when I spent the morning slapping your face. Anyway, I can always blame a patient. People in pain do weird stuff." 

John reached out to touch her cheek with one finger, and she closed her eyes, let him stroke her gently. They were both feeling the press of time as the clock rolled closer to four, the latest that Jess could leave and be home at her usual time. When John's hand came away wet, he pulled her close to kiss her, desperate and frantic, and this time there were no games, no fantasies, just Jess and him fucking urgently, gasping together as if they'd used up all the air. 

They lay very still together for that last hour, still damp from the shower, smelling of cheap hotel shampoo and soap. 

"Don't get killed, okay?" Jess said, her voice very small. "Just – I know, I'm not supposed to say that stuff – come back and see me again. I'll keep the phone. I'll check in on your numbers. Please be careful. Please come back." 

John kissed the back of her neck, where her hair was starting to curl rebelliously, and pulled his arms tight around her. "You have a beautiful life with Peter. I want you to be happy." He stood up, not meeting her eyes, knowing how much she would hate him to see her crying. He touched once, his hand spread on the small of her back, and then he dressed and left without speaking again.

* * *

Three months later, in the first class lounge at Dubai International, he saw the man's face on the cover of Forbes. The photograph was dramatic: his face half in shadow, the lighting harsh and polarising, his expression solemn and focused. It was a far cry from the social column snap he used for his profile on Angler. The headline read: "From the Ashes: Nathan Ingram and IFT's rise in the age of apps."

John took the magazine and flicked through it while they watched their new target, nervous and aggressive, shout at one of the attendants at the bar. 

IFT had apparently languished for almost a decade, coasting on defence contracts and its early products in network security. Last year, Ingram was injured in the ferry bombing in New York, and, according to this interview, that close shave was like an epiphany for him. 

"I was technically dead for three minutes," he told the magazine journalist. The inner picture was more candid than the cover, Nathan lounging on a low, sparse sofa. The black and white showed the pattern of healing burn scars criss-crossing the right side of his face and neck: little star-shaped patches, white and bloodless against his carefully curated tan. "I learned more in those one hundred and eighty seconds than in the whole of my life till then. I came out of it with an understanding of what safety can cost us in a post-9/11 world." 

Kara leaned over to peer at the cover, and sniffed. "Since when did you take an interest in billionaires, John?" 

"It never hurts to be a little better informed," he said, sanctimonious. He turned to the next page, gave the impression that he was fascinated by Elon Musk's newest thing. 

Kara leaned forward, elbows on her knee, watching their target. "He's going to crack any second now, head to the bathroom for a hit," she said. The man, a Saudi importer, was sweating, tapping his fingers on the bar, glancing from side to side. "I think it's time you took a bathroom break, lover. Take some reading material along." 

"On it," said John. He drew his weapon and tucked it neatly under the folded magazine, then set off towards the restrooms. On the other side of the thick glass the air shimmered with heat on the runways. He didn't think of New Rochelle, which would be covered in a thick blanket of snow.

After that, John kept an eye on Nathan Ingram of IFT. There was an oddness to the likelihood of him matching with Jessica on a dating app, something that made John's skin prickle. 

Ingram's life was largely public and he surrounded himself with an eclectic mix of people who accompanied him _everywhere._ Every time John came across a news item or sound bite with Ingram, he had three or four people standing behind him. Different people each time, it seemed, though John noticed some regulars once he started keeping track: woman with red hair, Asian man in his forties, olive-skinned man in his seventies with deep-set eyes. 

"I think you need to have open eyes for talent appearing unexpectedly," Ingram said, in a live interview with Wired. "Take Daniel, here," he pulled the middle-aged Asian guy forward from behind him. The man was profoundly uncomfortable with Nathan's arm over his shoulder, blinking in the bright light of the red carpet. "Doctor Aquino, I should say, has a background in nuclear engineering. Now you wouldn't think there was a lot of correlation between nuclear physics and the development of new app platforms, but that's what innovation is. Stepping outside our safe little world into the unknown." Dr Aquino nodded politely to the cameraman and disappeared back into Ingram's entourage as quickly as possible. 

John was in the same country as Ingram twice that year, and once at the same event, a technology summit in Paris. John took the chance to rifle through the man's suite while Kara was cultivating an asset in a Jacuzzi. Gaining information about Ingram had somehow become a way to connect with Jessica, whose messages were few these days, and almost always perfunctory. 

Nathan's suite was insanely luxurious, even for Paris: a domed ceiling, five rooms, an attendant butler who seemed to be having a silent war of passive aggression with the personal assistant assigned to Ingram for the summit. John avoided all of them by walking along the wide stone parapet and opening the glass doors on the balcony. 

Inside, the carpet was soft and thick, and his footsteps made no sound. John poked a head into each room: bedrooms, all empty. In the corner facing a wall, as if in disgrace, was a sleek black wheelchair, all scientific curves and ergonomic grips. 

The central living room had a long, low coffee table, littered with laptops and tablets in differing degrees of disassembly. John opened a few, was swiftly flummoxed by passwords for all of them but one. This was a tablet in a wrap-around case decorated with Monet's waterlilies, into which someone had painted, in careful impressionist style, a shark fin. When John pressed the on button, he was pleased to see the home screen light up, but displeased with the cheerful welcoming chirrup it made. He put it down on the table exactly where it had been left and waited. Security didn't come running, but a voice drifted in from one of the bedrooms, interspersed with the clanking sound of a wrench tightening something.

"Don't tell me you're bored with the Louvre already? I'm sorry to shout but I've got my head under the sink trying to fix this dripping pipe. And yes, I could have called room service, but really. It just needs tightening." 

John moved quietly and quickly to the balcony, easing himself through the doors. He waited, up on the parapet, to see who came to investigate. After a good five minutes, a man limped into the central living room, wiping his hands on a towel. His face showed a great deal of pain, and he put the towel down to pick up a cane, leaning heavily on it. 

"Well, perhaps I should have called room service. You can say 'I told you so' any time now." He was around the same age as Ingram, but with spectacles instead of Lasik, mousy hair instead of a carefully cultivated coiffure. When he had no answer, he frowned, and called out towards one of the rooms. "Grace?" 

His confusion turned to concern when he realised he was alone. Then he touched a finger to his ear, spoke a few words and his concern became sharp and narrow-eyed. He walked clumsily to the sofa and sat with a hiss, took up the tablet with the Monet case, tapped away at it, then froze. 

Suddenly realising how intensely stupid that whole venture had been, and that he may have been compromised by an image capture, John ducked back out of view. As he was bolting from the suite, he heard the man shout loudly for security. By the time he was back in time to help Kara haul their asset into the trunk of their car, a rumour was spreading across the convention that Nathan Ingram was leaving, despite being the keynote speaker at tonight's gala. John kept his mouth shut, stopped tracking Ingram across the globe and hoped to hell he hadn't gotten someone killed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's two worlds almost collide at an airport hotel when Kara makes an unexpected appearance.

John was back in the US for barely a week, cleaning up someone else's mess in Chicago, and with the blood barely washed off his hands, they shipped out again to Sydney. He left a message for Jess during a brief stop in NY, hopeful of meeting up, but she didn't answer and nothing came of it. 

He found her Instagram, and spent more time than he should have sitting in a change room in a gym in Lucerne with a cooling body at his feet, browsing the images, scrolling back and back until he found wedding photos. He stared at them, wondering when Jess had become this person, pristine and untouchable in ice-white damask, hair sleek and golden, face impeccably made up. In the professional photographs, she and Peter could have stepped from the unreal world of wedding magazines, where everything was perfect and easy and elegant. 

In his grip, the phone buzzed, and he checked his messages: Kara had sent a heads up that their mark had appeared to meet with his contact, the dead man on the floor. John cleared his cache and put the phone away, then loosened his gun in its holster and stepped out of the cubicle just as their mark walked in. 

"Hello Karl," he said to the terrified man. "What a surprise to see you here."

  


* * *

  


For months, it seemed that every time he set foot on home soil, he was miles away from New York, or he was there and gone before he could set up a rendezvous. Late in spring, he and Jessica managed a quick and frenzied two hours at an airport hotel; it wasn't long enough to arrange a meeting with the mysterious Nathan Ingram, but by then, Jess seemed too desperate to care. 

This time, she took a chance on handcuffs, and, with his arms behind his back, John kindly agreed not to escape from them. She bent him over the end of the bed and held the chain while she fucked him, using it pull herself hard into him. He gasped at each thrust, until he had melted, boneless and completely obedient. His shoulder wound had bled through the dressings by the time they collapsed, sweaty and exhausted, on the cheap acrylic coverlet. 

"John!" Jess cried out when she saw the bloodstains. "For fuck's sake, why didn't you tell me? Does it hurt?" 

John lolled on the bed, arms still behind his back, languid and goofy with post-orgasmic bliss. "I feel no pain," he said, dreamily, and Jess slapped his shoulder. "Ow!" He scowled at her, and scooped his cuffed wrists under his legs easily, so they were in front of him. 

Jess breathed out slowly. "Okay, that was really hot," she said. "But I want to check that dressing now." 

"Can I have the keys?" John said, stupidly proud of himself for turning her on with such a tiny thing like that. "I can pull my hands through if I have to, but…" 

Jess went to the counter for the keys and threw them to him, watching, pleased when he caught them easily and unlocked himself. Then she pulled him to the end of the bed and stood astride his legs. She stripped the dressing off with quick, professional movement while he mouthed at her neck. 

"Do not give me a hickey," she said, stern and focused. "There's a roll of paper tape in my purse, can you reach it? This stuff won't stick anymore." 

John fumbled for her purse without looking, tipped it over, and felt his way for the roll of tape. "Why?" he said, working over her collarbone. "Why've you got paper tape?" He was distracted, by the curve of her throat, the way her fingers moved cleverly and swiftly over the dressing while she stood naked and pressed against his chest. It was every naughty nurse fantasy come to life, only with competent medical care.

"I keep breaking nails," she said, tearing off a piece with her teeth. John kissed down her side, past the soft curve of her breast to the dip of her waist. He was drunk on the smell of her, the taste of her skin, and he was ready to push them both back down on the bed when the phone on the table rang. 

John grabbed it, put it to his ear. Done with the dressing, Jess lolled on the bed, one leg propped over John's good shoulder. "Yeah," he said, absently, his hand on the inside of Jess's thigh. She made a happy noise, fingers on her own nipple, watching him. 

"Sorry to wake you, lover," Kara's voice was sharp and sour. "Kudashov came out of hiding; he must have heard we called off the chase." 

John stilled on the bed. "Not a problem," he said. "I'll be down in ten." 

Jess sat up abruptly, startled by the change in his body language. 

"Ten minutes? You know, since you've paid for the room, I could just come up there. Ten minutes is plenty of time for us." 

John's mouth went dry, but his mind was already scrambling for strategies, to keep Jess safe, to keep Kara clear. He put two fingers on Jess's lips to stop her speaking, then spoke, emphasising the thickness in his voice. "Come on up," he said, and when Jess opened her mouth to protest, he shook his head at her. "It'll be just like that time in Bekasi." He and Kara had both spent two days in a clammy hotel room, fighting each other for the bathroom. 

Kara's revulsion was audible. "Jesus, John, I told you not to eat from street carts. Are you up for this or should I just go solo?" 

"I said it wasn't a problem," John said, shifting his hand to Jess's cheek, stroking her face. "Give me ten minutes to clean up and I'll be down." 

The phone hung up with a sound click, and John shut his eyes. When he opened them Jess stared at him like he'd turned into a stranger. 

"I have to go," he said. "I want you to stay here. If you haven't heard from me in an hour, that means I got her clear of the place, and you can safely leave. Don't open the door for anyone but me." 

Jess's face went completely blank, and she nodded her understanding. She moved away from his touch and curled up on her side of the bed, not speaking. John, feeling wretched, got up and took a shower. 

Hours later, when Kudashov had been delivered, head bagged and hands taped, into the care of an extreme rendition team, Kara leaned against the brick wall of the warehouse that served as a mobile prison unit, and eyed him. 

"You seem to have come through the shits okay," she said. "Thank god; I'd hate to have to shoot you, just when you're getting civilised." 

"You know I'm a fast healer," he said. When the truck with Kudashov aboard approached them, he rolled the door open so it could leave. 

"Wanna go back to the hotel room, and see how far that goes?" Kara asked. 

John felt a chill, despite the humid New York air. "We could go somewhere nice, you know." It sounded desperate, and he knew it, but he didn't close his eyes or give any indication that he felt trapped. He knew Jess would be long gone, but what if she'd left a note? Or if the hotel staff said something? He schooled his expression, in case Kara knew already and this was a trap. He should never have taken that chance to be with Jess today. He knew it was risky, but it had been so long since they'd seen each other.

Kara shrugged. "It's a room, it's close to the airport, and you really don't want to go back there. That makes it perfect." 

As it happened by the time they got back to the hotel, housekeeping had been and the room was pristine and empty. Kara, all teeth and nails, had John down on the bed before he had a chance to check around, but as far as he could tell before Kara was sitting astride his face, there was no sign that John had been there with company. He pushed the image of Jess far, far away, and got to work. 

He slept after that, because he really was exhausted, both by the emotional rollercoaster and with genuine jetlag. Kara disappeared into the bathroom for a long, long time. When he woke, it was several hours later, and Kara was doing her make-up in the big mirror facing the bed. 

"You got something you want to tell me, lover?" She leaned in close to her reflection, eyeliner between two fingers like a scalpel.

John kept his expression calm and his voice flat. "That's a great colour for you?" he offered. Always the straight man for Kara. 

"Yeah, but seriously, John." She held up a bottle, some kind of cosmetic. "Don't be ashamed of your self-expression. You want to write that girl's name across your arm, I don't think you should hide it." 

Heart racing, confused, John pushed himself forward and took the bottle from her. It was concealer – something specifically designed to cover tattoos. He passed it back. "It's not mine," he said. "Maybe the last guest left it?" It wasn't Jess's, either; she didn't have any tattoos. 

"Maybe," said Kara. "It's mine now." She threw it into her bag on the bed. Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. "Well, damn. They've got an APB out on us. That post office clerk must have squealed." 

John stood up, and reached for his pants. "You did break her nose." 

Kara snorted. "Should have broken her neck," she said, tracing a line of kohl across each eyelid. 

John's gaze kept flicking to that bottle of concealer, and he didn't know why. He wished he had a few moments to himself to just think, but he had so many things to consider right now: the mission, staying alive, keeping Jess a secret, making sure Kara killed the barest minimum of civilians because it was on both of them if they got caught.

"We'll have to fly solo," Kara was saying. "I'll go on my British passport. Can you pass me the black wig?" 

John buttoned his shirt and went to her bag, easing his hand in carefully until he found the silky black pageboy wig. The smooth glass of the concealer bottle rolled against his palm, and, unthinking, he closed his fingers around it and tucked it inside his sleeve. 

Kara tucked the last of her brown hair inside the wig, slung an Hermès scarf across her shoulders, and zipped up her bag. "How do I look, darling?" This was spoken in a crisp Estuary accent. 

"Spiffing," John said, in the same. "I'll wait a few days, let the heat die down." 

Kara rolled her eyes. "I'll see you in Skopje, then." She popped the handle on her luggage, and pulled it behind her, just another bored tourist ready to go home. 

John shut the door behind her and leaned against it, finally letting himself breathe fast and shallow. The glass bottle was now warm against his skin, the same temperature as blood. He rubbed his fingers over the label, which proclaimed maximum coverage, and dialled Jess's number. 

Her phone rang out, didn't even go to message. John found his eyes were tight and prickly, his shoulders hunched up. It was delayed adrenaline, he told himself. He was letting himself react to the fear and shock of Kara's proximity to Jess, making his skin crawl and his body jumpy with fear. 

He needed to think clearly, to keep his objectivity, but all he could see behind his eyelids was Kara's fingers on Jess's throat. Not because she was jealous. Not even because John's affair posed a security threat to their work. Kara would want to kill Jess because she would see that Jess was something precious, and Kara saw every precious thing as an insult. She'd probably even think she was helping John by removing a vulnerability. Something trickled down his back, and he realised he was sweating, a cold panic swelling inside him. It had been so close. 

John was half-asleep in a passenger's lounge in Prague, idly dialling Jess's number again when his call went unexpectedly through to message. He sat up straight on the plastic chair, waited for the recording to finish and thought about what he wanted to say. 

_"This is Jessica – you missed me. Leave a message."_

"Hey," he said, at the beep. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I try really hard to keep that stuff separate. I'll try harder, I promise." 

He gazed across the terminal, watching backpackers and families mill around the departure gates. It occurred to him that Jess would know where he was right now by the voices on the loudspeakers – they rotated through languages but not every airport would include Czech – but he didn't care. He was relieved that she even wanted to hear from him. 

"You tell me where you want me to go next time. If you want that. I understand if you don't. And I'm sorry. Stay safe, Jessie." 

As he hung up, he wondered why he'd said that last thing, but they were calling his flight by then, and negotiating the crowds of coach passengers put the whole conversation out of his mind.

  


* * *

  


There were no staff in the Tuscan villa on Sunday afternoons. John drove the two of them past the tiny church in the piazza on the way to the big house, and Kara pointed out the cook, the driver, the boy who brought in the goats and cows. 

"None of the Americans are there, you'll note," she said, screwing her suppressor on. "So absolve yourself now. We're not killing the pious." She holstered the gun and tucked a stray hair under her headscarf. 

The zippy little Alpha Romeo crunched into the courtyard of the villa just as dusk was gathering. John heard a woman laugh, shrill and excited, on the other side of the building. A man's voice answered and then there was a splash as someone dived into the pool. 

Fortunately he heard no children; the last time Kara had gone for the "Wait, this isn't our villa!" ploy, he'd had to shove the nanny and the toddlers outside in the dark and hope they made it to the nearest village. Fortunately, Kara had thought that hilarious, and had laughed about it for weeks. 

Kara changed her shoes, leaning against the door of the Alpha. "You think when we're done, Mark will give us some time off? I wouldn't mind a few days in New York." 

That was unusual. Kara had few wants outside of assignments. John pulled on a pair of leather gloves and made sure they were firmly in place. "Maybe?" He gave her a sly smile; her post-mission preference was for rough and dirty sex, which to be honest didn't bother John much either. "You meeting someone? You gonna make me jealous?" 

She grinned at him. "Ha! Maybe. Or maybe your ass has too many miles on it now." 

She bent over and snagged a purse from the back seat of the car, and walked briskly through the gravel to the rear of the house. John had to run to keep up with her. When they rounded the corner of the building, Kara put on her enthusiastic face and ran towards the couple sitting by the pool. 

"Oh, hey there! Can you help us? We're so completely lost!" 

John followed behind and kept his gun low until the last possible moment. 

Afterwards, Kara sat in the kitchen and nibbled on a piece of provolone from a platter laid out before the staff went to church. John stood by the window keeping watch. The two bodies floated in the swimming pool, trailing ribbons of blood into the azure water. 

"Would it be weird if there was someone?" Kara said, dreamily. She hovered a hand over the platter and selected a plump green olive. "A regular squeeze, I mean. Never had that before." 

John turned his back on the window, intrigued. "What's regular, by your definition?" 

"Twice so far," said Kara. "He's so naïve, it's actually erotic." 

"What's his name?" John asked, fascinated. 

Kara shrugged and sipped her wine. "Does it matter? I call him baby, mostly." 

"Where's he from?" 

"I don't know that either, but he gives one hell of a massage." Kara cupped her chin. "I gave him one hell of a massage, too," she said, with a feral grin. "It was one of those revelations for him. He didn't know his asshole could feel so good." 

John turned back to the window and saw the headlights of a car turn onto the country road that led to the villa. "I think church is over. We better get moving."

  


* * *

  


_> Got your message. Are you going to that seminar in NYC? It's at the Beekman._

John read the text with a dubious feeling. He and Jess had been texting from time to time, and the awkwardness and misery of their last meeting had receded enough that she had begun to talk again about meeting with Nathan. 

As far as John could tell, from his superiors and from Ingram's social media stream, there had been no repercussions from that Paris misadventure, at least as far as he could tell, but the stupid decision to break into Ingram's suite had somewhat taken the edge off his enthusiasm for Jess's idea. 

Still, Kara's new fascination with her mystery toyboy meant that John had two days to spend on his own in New York. When he checked in with Jess, she had been ecstatic. 

"Peter's out of the state for the week," she said. "It's perfect – I'll get it all set up." 

"You really want to do this, Jessie?" he said, his voice odd and echoing on the phone he'd bought on the way to the airport in Chengdu.

Even over the bad line, he could hear Jess's voice go hoarse with want. "So much," she said. "I'm thinking about it right now, and if I wasn't at work, I'd have my hand in my pants." 

From beside her, he heard a woman laugh. "Don't let me stop you, girl." 

"Jess…" John said, appalled that she'd take a risk like this somewhere where she could be overheard. 

"It's okay," Jess assured him. "Shelley's cool; she's been my back-up alibi before." 

"As a cucumber, baby," Shelley said. "Tell hot stuff he better look after you properly, or I'm coming after him with a huge colonic." 

Jess giggled. "I don't know, he might be into that." 

"Tell Shelley to keep that idea on the back burner," John said, just to hear Jess laugh again. "And I'll see you in a couple of days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm picturing Shelley as played by Samira Wiley, as seen in Ep 1.21, Many Happy Returns.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jess finally have their date with Nathan.

The suite at the Beekman was smaller than the one Nathan Ingram had in Paris, but otherwise just as lavish. Jess met him at the door in a shimmering black sequined dress, her hair down and sleek. When she pulled him into the living room, John's professional eye took in the room: it sprawled, cavernous and well-lit, with what he presumed was an equally spacious bathroom. He allowed himself a few seconds more of agent-level awareness to assure himself that Jess and Nathan were the only other people up here, then he swept Jessica up in his arms and spun her around. It always amazed him, to have her there, warm and alive and full of joy. 

Her grin was wide and happy, and she threw her head back to let her hair stream behind her. She looked good – strong and fit and tan, her expression easier than it had been the last few times they'd met. John worried about the toll this all took, negotiating a tenuous relationship around his job and her marriage. The close call with Kara in the airport hotel could have been the last straw, but apparently Jess had bounced back without ill effect. 

"Come and meet Nathan," she said, and dragged him across the room. 

Nathan stood by the bar, pouring a drink and giving the two of them a little privacy. He turned with a smile that creased the skin at the corners of his eyes. 

"It's good to meet you at last, John," he said. "Jessica said you were handsome, but I think beautiful is a better way to put it." He passed the glass to John. "You are beautiful, John." 

It was so ridiculously disarming, with an honest smile and easy words that other men would be ashamed to say, that John smiled back and took the drink. Beside him, Jess stroked the small of his back with her fingers and leaned on his arm. 

"So," Nathan said, this time addressing Jess. "What did we agree to, in the end?" 

Jess ran her fingers up along John's spine to the nape of his neck and John leaned his head back so she could stroke his hair. Nathan's eyes dilated in a gratifying way, and John gave him an open mouthed smile showing teeth. 

"We were negotiating price," Jess said. "Now you've seen the goods, maybe we can tie down a figure." She pressed her other hand to John's stomach, sliding a finger between two buttons. John leaned into her touch, allowed himself to be displayed and Jess rewarded him with a kiss behind his ear.

Nathan sipped his own drink calmly, though his eyes followed Jess's hands. "I'm afraid it's been a while for me – what's the going rate?" 

Jessica opened her mouth to answer, but before she could name some irrelevant figure John estimated the amount of cash a billionaire might have on his person, and said smoothly, "Ten thousand." 

Nathan blinked, and Jess made a faint squeak of horror beside him, so he distracted them both by sliding to his knees. "I can offer an appetiser, if it will help you decide." 

Above him, Jess breathed out in a rush and stepped up close so that his head rested on her thighs. He arched upwards against her, caught a glimpse of her wrapt expression, and smiled back. He looked at Nathan, who watched him, hypnotised, and let the smile become mercenary. 

"I promise, you'll be pleased with your purchase." 

Even though Nathan wasn't the kind of guy John would go for if he had a choice – to be honest, he didn't know what kind of guy he'd go under those imaginary circumstances – working his cock was actually kind of relaxing. John blew him in a slow, languorous way, taking occasional sips from his glass and then sliding his mouth down over the head of Nathan's cock so that salt mingled with liquor across his tongue. Nathan's knees started to tremble fifteen minutes into it, so John pushed him towards the sofa. Then he could really get into it, arched up over him, working his head up and down, a palm on each clothed knee for support. When he got Nathan's cock right down his throat, he swallowed around it and Nathan went straight for John's hair, pulling it tight as he moaned, eyes half closed. It was all for Jess, though: every gulp and gasp, each time he tongued the head of Nathan's cock, the way he kept Nathan on the edge of coming for twenty minutes while drool spilled down his own chin. It was all to make Jess sigh. 

He watched her from his position between Nathan's legs, as she prowled around the sofa. Nathan was lost by now, his head thrown back while John played him like a violin. This gave John the chance to show off, flirting with Jess via Nathan's body, head bobbing with porn-worthy diligence, looking up at her with Nathan's cock in his throat, letting his lips glide over the head of it while he gazed at her through his eyelashes. 

"Oh, Jesus," Nathan gasped, teetering on the brink of orgasm. Jess darted in behind John to pull him off Nathan's cock by the hair. Nathan opened his eyes as John pulled back, giving a wail of protest but Jess ignored him.

John panted, head arched back in her grip, while she stroked his belly. "Oh, John. You were amazing. Look what you did to him." She tilted his head forward while she palmed the length of his cock through his pants, firm and possessive. "You made him feel so good." He pushed back against her, breathing heavily, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips where he'd drooled.

Nathan slumped on the sofa with an anguished expression on his face, and his cock thrusting uselessly into air. "Any chance he could make me feel good again? For maybe just a few minutes more?" 

"Not yet," said Jess. "We haven't settled on a price, for one thing. And for another – and don't take this personally, but will you be good for another round? I did specify certain things I wanted to see, and while coming all over John's face is…" 

"Hey, I'm right here, and perfectly happy to swallow," John said, reproachfully, but leaning into Jess's touch. He ground idly against her hand on his cock, and Jess kissed his neck, all the while keeping him facing Nathan, so the man could see John sigh and arch with desire. 

"Nggh," said Nathan, and struggled upright. "Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "I may not have the vigour of my youth, but I should be good for a night's entertainment. And if not, I'm certainly not above the use of fine pharmaceuticals." 

John leaned back against Jess's body, and held up one hand, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together in the universal gesture for money. 

"And yes," Nathan went on. "John, you're a talented man and I would happily pay that price just to have you finish me off right now." 

To forestall any shocked sound from Jess, John tipped forward onto all fours, and crawled, predatory, back to his position between Nathan's legs. He licked his palm with the broad flat of his tongue and slid it, damp, along the length of Nathan's softening cock. Glancing back over his shoulder at Jess, John used his teeth to wet his own lips liberally and with dark eyes she gave him a nod of encouragement. 

Nathan sighed, leaning back against the sofa again. Even though he had flagged a little during the negotiations, it was easy enough for John to bring him back to full hardness again. Jess pressed against his back, her chin on his shoulder and her palm on his belly, feeling the muscles move there while he worked. Soon she was driving the action, telling him when to go deep, keeping an eye on Nathan's responses so that all John had to do was obey. 

"Wait," she said, leaving Nathan to gasp and thrust. She pulled John out of his jacket, opened the buttons on his shirt, then grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind his back. "Just your mouth now." 

John leaned forward, holding his wrists behind him, head bobbing over Nathan's cock while Jess whispered encouraging words in his ear. His fingertips brushed the sequinned fabric of her evening gown; it was bunched up around her hips and he realised she had rucked it up so she could touch herself. He moved his head faster, bringing Nathan closer to climax, while he felt his way down over Jess's belly to the soft mound of her pubis. He was a multi-tasker – it was a requirement of the work – but the angle was awkward, especially as he worked up and down Nathan's cock. Jess understood what he was reaching for, though, and pressed herself onto his fingers. He felt her, warm and slippery, moving up and down against his fingertips. Nathan's big hand rested on one shoulder, and Jess was warm through his shirt at his back making soft little moans as she rubbed up and down. It wasn't long before John was floating, caught between Jess's warmth and Nathan's easy presence. He let himself forget about Chengdu and the smell of blood, let go his worry about Kara discovering this little island of retreat he and Jess had built. None of that would matter, not for the next few hours at least, and all he had to concern himself with was making sure that Jessica was happy, that Nathan enjoyed himself. 

As he worked his mouth over Nathan's cock, he wondered what it was about the man that put him at ease so quickly. Jess's body language, maybe? She wasn't a professional but as a nurse she had good instincts for danger, and she was very comfortable in Nathan's company. They'd been talking for months in the time it took to arrange this rendezvous, after all. 

Jess mouthed the back of his neck, moaning as she brought herself off against his fingers, and in response, Nathan's fingers spread out across John's shoulder. John, his mouth pleasantly tired now, sped up his pace. Jess released one of his hands, and he wrapped it around the base of Nathan's cock. 

The combination of Jess writhing behind John, and John's open, wet mouth brought Nathan off with a shout. John took him deep while he came, and felt Jess's fingertips at the point of his jaw as he swallowed. 

"Oh, Christ," said Nathan, panting, collapsed on the sofa with his face flushed and his hair in his eyes. "That was… worth every cent," he said. "You're wonderful, John." Then, surprising John, he leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, unbothered by how messy John was. He ran a thumb over John's swollen lip, an expression of amazement on his face. Still breathing heavily, he kissed him again, this time on the forehead, strangely reverent. He stroked John's damp hair and over John's shoulder, talking to Jess. "Can I touch him?" 

Jess stroked John's chest, still pressed against him. "Do you want that, John? Would you like to come, too?" 

John tipped his head back so she could kiss his lips. "I want what you want, Jess."

She lingered above him, her hair framing his face, and John thought that if this was the last face he saw on Earth, he could die happy. "You've been so good, John. You've worked so hard. But I want you to come with Nathan inside you. Can you wait a little bit?"

Her voice was so tender, and her hands were kind and this place was so far from the other part of his life that John was intoxicated. He nodded dreamily. "I'll wait for Nathan," he said. He'd wait and wait until Jess said it was okay. 

Nathan laughed, and the warmth of it filled the room. "I would be delighted to oblige," he said.

Jessica kissed John's neck. "Then be my guest," she said. She brushed Nathan's fingers with her own as if passing him a treasure. 

The bed in this suite was broad and low. John let Jess lead him there, stood patiently for her while she pulled off his shirt, worked on his fly. Nathan followed, bringing his glass of whiskey, and while Jess eased John out of his clothes, Nathan proffered the glass, let John take a few swallows. 

"You're beautiful, John," he said again. "I'm honoured that Jess would share you. I want to make you feel so good." 

Jess stood behind him, her lips skimming his shoulder blades. Nathan took a final swallow from his glass and loosened his tie, shrugged out of his jacket. When he kissed John, there was salt on his tongue and smoke from the liquor. John sighed, open-mouthed. Nathan put his thumb at the corner of John's mouth, moving it gently while he kissed him. Behind John, Jess pressed against his naked body. She still wore that shimmering dress, but he felt her warmth radiating through it. 

He felt like he floated, held in place by the hands on his body: Nathan and Jess, stroking him all over like something precious. He sighed and leaned into their touch, uncaring that he was totally defenceless now. 

The bed bumped the back of his calves, and Jess eased him down onto it, still holding him, guiding him by the shoulders. Nathan followed, and soon it was all three of them sprawled on the enormous bed. Jess cradled John's head in her lap, stroked his hair, his lips, his chest, while Nathan used firm fingers to open him up. When Nathan began to move his fingers inside, John gasped and writhed on the bed: Nathan knew what he was doing, and took enough care to make sure John was wet and slippery, that there was no discomfort more than a pleasant stretch and burn. 

Above him, John saw that Jessica was watching, wrapt. She trailed her own fingers over his lips and he opened for them, too, catching them between his teeth and lapping at them with his tongue. 

Nathan disappeared from the bed abruptly, and John jumped, looking for a possible disturbance, but Jess soothed him, closing his eyelids, cupping his face, bending over his face to kiss him upside down. 

"It's okay, it's okay," she said, lips moving against John's. "He's getting ready, he'll be back in a second. You're so beautiful, John, you're so beautiful when you let go of everything. I've never seen you like this." 

"I'm here," Nathan said. "Stay with me, John, you're doing everything right. You're wonderful." John heard the crinkle of foil wrapping, then felt the weight of Nathan kneeling back on the bed again. Nathan slipped a hand under John's thigh and pushed it up until Jess caught it from him, and crooked it, bent, holding his knee. Then both his knees were up, and he lay cradled in Jess' lap with her arms around each knee, holding him open and ready. Nathan loomed above him, and John found he was breathless suddenly, with anticipation of what was going to happen, that Jess was going to see it happen. Nathan spread his fingers over John's chest, which heaved as John panted. 

"Here," said Jess, and took a nipple between her fingertips, rolled it with pressure that was just on the edge of painful. John whimpered and thrust himself towards Nathan, who laughed, delighted. 

"He likes it like this, nice and firm." Jessica's voice was a little short of breath, too. John could smell her: arousal and sweat surrounding him. He gasped, feeling heady and untethered, drifting on sensation, unable to defend against anything. While she teased his nipples, Nathan was sliding into him, a slow and steady push that made John open his mouth and pant desperately, making sounds that seemed to come from far away. Whether or not Nathan was relying on pharmaceutical assistance, his cock was a good size, and it made for a pleasant, almost painful stretch as it opened him up. Jess cupped his face, watched him avidly as he took Nathan in, with gasps and shudders. 

Events devolved into an endless tableau of Nathan above him, Jessica behind him, and pleasure sending shocks through his entire body. Jess called him back to himself, and he tried to follow her, diligently answered her questions and did what she told him: kiss me, open your mouth, show me how good you feel. Each time she spoke there was a moment or two of connection, and then he was floating again. It could have gone on for hours or even days, but he didn't care, because Jess was here and she was happy. 

Eventually, though, a frustration started to take build inside him. Jess held him by now and he held her, half lying on top of her while Nathan fucked him with steady strokes. The sparkling evening gown had slipped off one of her shoulders and John lay against her breasts, breathing in perfume and the faint smell of her sweat. Every shudder he felt as Nathan thrust into him passed to her, and she stroked his skin with her fingertips in response. Nathan adjusted his angle, pushed John's legs further up. The pressure of each stroke against his prostate intensified and John rubbed his head against Jess's chest, panting and begging in a stream of words. 

"Jess, please, please, Jess…" He didn't know what he was asking for anymore, just that Jess would know, and Jess would give it to him.

"Shh," Jess said, smoothing his hair, sodden on his forehead. "Soon, I promise." 

Nathan was working harder now, sweat slicking the skin wherever they touched, thrusting hard and upwards into John's body. Each stroke took John a little closer to the edge, and he gasped in time with Nathan's movements. Jessica trailed her fingers down, over John's chest, down his belly, to where his cock jutted upward, hard and dark, the head wet with anticipation. Her hand hovered above it, and John felt a whimper of desire escape his chest. He wanted her to touch him, he tried to thrust himself upwards towards her, and the movement meant that Nathan pushed into him harder. John gasped and clenched at the roughness of the sensation. Nathan made a noise of surprise and pleasure, then followed up on that cue by leaning hard on John's legs for leverage to slam hard against him. 

John cried out at the force of it, and for a moment, worried, Nathan slowed the pace. 

"Don't worry about him. He likes it rough," Jess said, breathless. In her arms, John gasped and tried to spread his legs, tried to show Nathan it was okay, she was right. Jess covered his open mouth with her palm. "And I want you to get your money's worth." 

"Oh, God," said Nathan, between thrusts. He pumped hard into John, again and again, faster than before and with much less consideration for John's comfort. John tried to writhe under him, but Jess touched his chest and he stilled immediately. He had no words anymore to beg, but he gazed up at Jess, pleading silently. 

"Stay still," Jess said to him, "And I'll help you finish with Nathan." 

John obeyed as best he could, let his arms splay out to either side of him, and kept as still as possible. Jess stroked his cheek briefly to show how proud she was of him, then slid her hand down to encircle his cock. Nathan made a low noise on each stroke now, faster and with more focus. 

Finally, finally, Jess closed her fingers tight round John's cock, and he thrust upwards into her grip in time with Nathan's movements. Nathan pushed in deep and stayed there, leaning his bodyweight on John's thighs, breathing a low and desperate groan. Pleasure and release washed over John like a wave breaking, and he was lost in it, would drown if not for Jess to anchor himself against. Her voice brought him back to himself eventually. He had wrapped his arms around her waist and clung to her tightly, though his arms felt weak and trembling. Nathan lay beside him on the bed, flat on his back, chest heaving, with one hand splayed over John's hip. 

"John," Nathan said, after more time slipped past. His voice was hoarse, and his fingers were gentle over John's skin. John rolled further over onto his side, his head still pillowed on Jessica's lap, and pressed the length of his body against Nathan's.

He slept for a while, warm and spent, entwined with Jessica and pressed to Nathan's side. He felt oddly safe, distant from his work, distant from the world where Jessica was married to a stranger. He'd wake, shuffle himself into a more comfortable position and drift off again. 

Voices woke him: Jessica and Nathan conferring quietly above his body. He blinked up at them, feeling too lazy to move. Nathan bent and kissed John's forehead then stood and walked away, standing naked in the middle of the room with his phone to his ear. 

"Hey," Jess said, and traced his lips. John kissed her fingertips with his eyes half closed. "Nathan's organising room service." 

A stranger coming into this bubble of security was enough to wake him all the way up. He pulled Jess down on top of him and kissed her while she squealed and hit at him. 

"You're sticky," she said, but lay there above him. Her evening gown had seen better days: some of the sequins were gone, and the shoulder seam had ripped. 

John nuzzled into her neck. "Wanna take a shower? Before this delivery arrives?" 

He spent the next half hour lavishing attention on Jessica, his mouth on her cunt while hot water streamed all around and over them both. She came with both her hands in his hair, then folded up to sit with him in the middle of the ridiculously spacious shower, cuddling under the endless hot water. 

Jess settled comfortably on his lap, leaning against him with her wet hair trailing long over his shoulder. She looked at her sad, crumpled evening gown on the floor. "I'm glad I bought a change of clothes," she said. "Is he really going to pay you ten thousand dollars?" 

John grinned. "You don't think I earned it?" When Jess slapped his shoulder, sending up a spray of water, he laughed. "Well he's paying you ten thousand," he said. "As my pimp, it's up to you to decide my cut." He pressed his forehead against her temple, while water poured down over them. "But seriously, I don't need a cut. You can keep it all."

"Really?" said Jess. "You can just say 'No, thanks' to ten grand? What do they pay you in this job?" 

John closed his eyes and concentrated on the taste of Jess's skin, all slick with water and the faint taste of the high-end soap in this place. "They pay me by the mile," he said. It was easier than explaining that since he didn't have a home, and since the agency covered all his living costs, his salary just sat there and would sit there until the day he caught a bullet. 

Jess laughed, unbelieving, and John kissed all the way up her neck to her mouth. Jess slid to face him, grinding against his cock, and John was just starting to think he was up for another round when there was a polite tap on the door. 

"My friends, room service is arriving now – thought you'd appreciate the notice." 

John stood, still holding Jess with her legs wrapped around his waist, and regretfully put her down. "We'll be out in a minute." He reached for towels and draped one across Jess's shoulders. 

"You'll be out in a minute," Jess said, grumpily squeezing the water out of her hair. "Because you don't wear mascara." 

John fluttered his eyelashes at her while he towelled himself down. "I'm always willing to give it a try." 

Room service was busy at work when he emerged from the bathroom. Uniformed staff filed into the room with food, remade the bed, picked up stray clothes. 

"I got steak." Nathan pointed at the trolley. He'd washed and dressed in the time they'd been fooling around in the shower and now sat at the dining table with his tablet in front of him. He leaned on the back of his chair. "How are you feeling?" 

John gazed across the room as the women in neat uniforms brought it back to order again. His body felt heavy, somehow, as if he'd left normal gravity behind in the shower, or in the bed that he and Jess had shared with this stranger. He prowled the room until he found his clothes, took his jacket politely from one of the maids. He was glad he hadn't brought a weapon – he generally didn't when he was seeing Jess, but he'd thought about it.

Nathan watched him dress, an enquiring expression on his face. "You okay?" he asked and reached for him. 

John sidestepped his outstretched arm and shrugged back into his shirt, ignoring the way it stuck to his damp skin. "I'm fine," he said, shortly. He generally didn't see this awkward end of a liaison – it would normally end in blackmail or death or whatever the mission required. This mission only required that Jessica be happy, and that seemed to have been accomplished. He and Nathan didn't have to be friends. 

Jess emerged from the bathroom, hair sleek and dry, make-up perfect, and went to investigate the food. John caught her eye and tilted his head towards the door. He was ready to go, and he didn't want to leave Jessica here by herself. 

Jessica gave him a tight little smile but turned her back on him, helping herself to steak, spooning green beans onto a plate. She sat down next to Nathan, and Nathan pushed a glass in her direction, splashed red wine into it. Jess took a sip and gazed off into the room, still ignoring John. 

Nathan's expression was one of worry, and an odd and unexpected compassion. When a bellhop approached, he pushed away from the table to meet him, and took the envelope from the man's tray. 

"I'll take this as my cue to leave you two in peace," Nathan said. He put the envelope beside Jessica's plate, and bent to kiss her cheek. "As promised," he said. "And well-earned," he added, nodding at John. 

Jess took it, glanced inside and tried to hide her reaction to the half-inch of hundred dollar bills. She hurriedly closed the envelope and took a big gulp of wine. 

"I enjoyed what we shared together here. I would be delighted to meet with you again." Nathan held out a tentative hand in John's direction. When John took it, expecting a manly shake, Nathan raised John's hand and kissed the knuckles, oddly charming and unselfconscious. 

"You two take care of each other," he said, before he left. John was sure he was going to say something else, but he simply smiled and walked out after the last of the staff. The suite was empty now, except for himself and Jessica.

After Nathan left, Jess's shoulders relaxed. She held her wine glass out for John, and he took it by the stem, raised it to his lips. 

"Tell me how to explain away an extra ten thousand dollars to Peter," she said, and pulled out a chair. "I'd stash it, but we could really use the cash boost at the moment." At John's raised eyebrows, she added hastily, "We did some investing, and it's taking a while to pay off." 

"Tell him you took a trip to Atlantic City with a friend," said John, glad of something solid to discuss. This, he could answer. He sat next to her, put the wine glass on the table between them. "Then say you put some money on the roulette wheel and struck it lucky." 

Jessica put another mouthful of steak in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Is that a spy thing?" she asked. 

"It's a money laundering thing," said John. "Mobsters do it all the time – cover all the red squares, break even with your money, transform cash into chips into cash." 

"I guess I could convince Shelley to take a weekend down at AC as cover," Jess said. She speared a bean with her fork and looked towards the closed door of their suite. "I can't believe he just gave us ten thousand dollars."

"It's nothing to him," John said. The easy, flirtatious mood was evaporating, and he didn't know why. Nathan's generosity, in bed and out, irked him. Nathan's openness, and his obvious but inexplicable concern irked him. Everything irked him, apparently. 

Jess pushed the steak around her plate. "What's the matter with you?" she said.  
"Wasn't this good? You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

John took another sip of wine. Professional experience told him that it was Californian, that it cost more than seven hundred dollars a bottle, knew that Nathan had ordered it without consideration for the cost and would have ordered ten more if they'd asked. This only emphasised the difference between him and Jess now, only made him feel more like a stranger. 

"Stop it," Jess said. "Stop over thinking everything." 

"Sorry," said John. He leaned against the back of the chair, feeling uncomfortable and unhappy. "Maybe it's let down, I don't know." 

"Well, get over it," Jess said, harshly. "Because this was good, and I don't want you to ruin it." 

"Jess…" John reached for her hand and she jerked it away from him. "I'm sorry. You're right – this was good." He pushed down that anxiety and made himself smirk. "I enjoyed myself a lot," he said, fluttering his eyelashes at her. 

Jessica watched him for a moment then relented. She cut a piece of steak and held it out for him on her fork, smiling when he took it daintily with his teeth and chewed. "You were amazing," she said. "I loved watching your face. 

John chewed and swallowed. "I loved making you happy," he said, and it was almost like they were a couple again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to meet up with Jess, John stalks Nathan instead, and catches him doing something stealthy.

"Hey, it's me. I… I'm sorry things got weird at the end last time." Jess's message was tentative, and John could hear the clatter and bustle of the hospital behind her. "It was really great. Nathan was great. You were… amazing. I think about your face a lot." Her voice thickened. "You're so beautiful. Be safe, okay?" 

There was Tokyo and a screaming mass of people at a wedding. No need to get proof of death there: lying flat on a temple roof, Kara took a headshot and the resulting explosion of flesh and bone was captured on multiple screens. It quickly went viral and was still circulating on YouTube, despite repeated attempts to remove it.

"I was thinking, the other day," Jess said. "We're really not the same people any more, are we? God, we were so young back then, and now everything is about compromise and lying to yourself. It's weird to realise that I'm actually okay with that. It's like I've reached the point where I understand life is about what feels good in the moment. I'm never going to save the world. But I got to see you so vulnerable that night. I can't explain what it means that you trust me so much." 

London brought a rooftop chase with a pair of Russian agents. A bullet grazed John's hip that time, but Kara tore ligaments in her shoulder wrestling a woman to ground level, and ended up needing surgery back in the States. 

While she was recovering in a hospital in DC, John found himself wandering the streets in NYC with his phone in his hand. He'd checked his message bank a few days ago, envisioning a rendezvous but instead found another voice mail. 

"It's me again. I hope you're safe. I had lunch with Nathan. Just to talk about that night, you know?" This time, John could hear a car engine hum, and the thump-thump of wipers. "It was good to decompress, actually. I don't think I realised how intense it would be, and yeah. He said it can be delicate with hook-ups, figuring out how much help to offer, when to leave gracefully. I liked talking with him." She laughed, though the back of John's neck was creeping. He wasn't sure where to place the idea of Jess and Nathan meeting without him, talking about him. 

Frustrated and worried, he paced the streets, and, to stop himself driving up to New Rochelle to check on Jess, he pulled out his phone and checked on Nathan. There was no justification for it, other than the way that Nathan had cared for Jessica. It was more than he would have expected from a random threesome organised via a dating app. And that was another thing that rankled, something that had only just occurred to him now: why would a matching algorithm put a billionaire in touch with Jessica? 

John knew Nathan had every conceivable social media account, and from them poured a constant stream of information about his daily life. John browsed through Twitter, and saw a photo posted ten minutes ago: Nathan at a restaurant opening in Midtown, something with a celebrity chef. He flagged down a cab and headed that way. 

The restaurant had huge glass windows overlooking the street, all the better for celebrity spotting. Standing outside, behind the paparazzi, John could see Nathan mingling with the minor celebrities and socialites in the restaurant. He had the smiling redheaded woman on his arm, and on his other side was the older man, Lawrence Szilar, who was another of the engineers Nathan had collected into his retinue. There was definitely a weird dynamic to this group: whenever someone raised a camera, Nathan pulled Szilar into shot with him, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and smiled like he'd just won the lottery. Szilar, while not actively resisting Nathan's attentions, was not happy with all the photographs, and definitely uncomfortable in this social setting. The red-headed woman, whose name was never in any publications, seemed to be a mediator between the two of them, soothing Szilar when he started to bristle, convincing Nathan to give him a break from the flashing lights and loud conversations. John watched until the fuss died down, and people started to leave the restaurant. 

Nathan walked home, with the woman beside him, and Szilar keeping pace behind. John slotted easily into the stream of foot traffic, weaving forward until he was right behind the little group where he could listen in on the conversation. 

"…I don't understand all the foams," said the red-headed woman. "I mean, I understand the faddishness of food in general, that's nothing unexpected, but who on Earth looks at foam and thinks 'Gosh, that's an appetising way to present scallops'?" 

"It's interesting on a molecular level," said Szilar. "But I admit, I am still hungry." 

"Oh, Lawrence, I'm so glad it's not just me," said the woman. "I wonder if we can pick up something on the way home. Harold likes that Ethiopian place…" 

Nathan threw his arms in the air. "I travel with philistines!" he said to the night sky. "And if Harold wanted to eat, he should have come out with us." He put his arms down with a sigh and turned to Szilar. "I'm sorry, Lawrence, that was uncalled for. And I'm very glad that you put up with my plan to drag you all over the place like this." 

Szilar made an understanding gesture. "I don't blame you, Nathan. I'm grateful to you for trying to ensure I stay in one piece. It's the socialising that I find wearing. Although my daughter is pleased; she says that following your Instagram means she sees more of me than she ever has when I was working." 

The woman giggled. "She should come out and visit us again; that was fun. Oh, look –" she pointed at a sign for Korean BBQ. "Let's bring some home for Harold, and us. Because all we've eaten are tiny spoonfuls of mollusc foam." 

The oddest thing about this situation with Nathan, John thought, as he followed them back to an apartment building, luxe and secure, wasn't the eclectic entourage, or the social media onslaught. Rich people did all kinds of things when they weren’t subject to social sanction. 

The thing that he couldn't fit together was why Nathan had matched with Jess on Angler. Jessica was beautiful, but her life and her interests didn't intersect with Nathan's at all. There were plenty of prurient reasons for Nathan to want a random encounter with a beautiful blonde and her bi-curious boyfriend, but Jess said they'd been talking, getting to know each other. That didn't fit with a soundbite-generating, instant gratification social media junkie like Nathan. If he wanted such an encounter, he could make it happen easily. Why bother with apps like Angler? Then again, what other motive could he have? Or was John's examination of every possible coincidence in his life turning into paranoia? 

He had no chance of entering the apartment building stealthily, not with three alert doormen and security cameras on every possible angle. Instead, he lurked in the alley besides the building, wasting time and dialling Jessica's burner phone over and over, even though it went to message every time. When the side door opened and Nathan stepped out wearing a coat with the collar turned up, obviously trying to be stealthy, John was in a perfect position to follow him. 

John walked quietly and swiftly, until he was in the man's shadow, and then kept pace with him. Nathan clearly had no clue about how to move unobtrusively. He was having a one-sided conversation for one thing, into an earpiece he hadn't been wearing at dinner. 

"I don't know, Harold, I'll just figure it out as I go. Maybe if I explain everything to her, she'll understand. Hey! It could happen! You're a damn cynic sometimes, has anyone ever told you? I have? Well, I know what I'm talking about, then. Where's my car, or do I have to walk all the way across town?" 

A sleek town car pulled up within minutes, driven by a uniformed driver. John caught the eye of a cabbie and motioned him to pull over, but first he stepped right up to Nathan's back, close enough to smell his expensive aftershave. Nathan rattled off an address as he stepped into the car, and as soon as he heard it, John peeled off into the shadows before he was seen.

With a hefty tip, the cab brought John to the address in Clinton before the dark town car had made it through late night traffic, which gave him time to scope out Nathan's destination. The apartment building was run down, not decrepit yet, but a lot of windows sat dark. Oddly for a poorly maintained building, there was a security guard at the front door and another on a steady patrol around the grounds, in constant radio communication. 

John waited until the patrolling guard had passed, then pulled himself silently onto the fire-escape and through the window into a darkened apartment. It was unfurnished and dusty, clearly unoccupied for some time. Out in the hallway, he disabled the elevator so that Nathan would have to take the stairs. The hall had a view down onto the street, so he leaned against the wall and waited for Nathan to arrive. 

He had no messages on his phone, and Jess still wasn't answering. John paced the hallway a few times, trying to figure out what he was doing here, stalking Nathan. 

What was he hoping to find out? Nathan was just a rich guy playing around with the world because he could. Maybe he just liked slumming it with pretty middle- class girls and their boyfriends? 

Nathan's car pulled up, and he obtained access to the building by the simple means of bribing the guard. 

"He saw your famous face," John said to him silently, from his view one floor above. "That's stupidly risky." Then he entered the staircase and climbed up a few floors to maintain a lead. 

He heard Nathan slogging up the stairs shortly after. The man wasn't out of breath so much that he couldn't keep talking to his friend via the earpiece. 

"I'm fine, Harold, it's only four flights. I do more on the Stairmaster everyday. Did you hear from the man's broker? Did they accept our offer? No, if you offer too much, they'll think we know something they don't, and hang on tighter. We don't have time for that." 

John padded up onto the fourth floor: the light from the single globe in the hall was dim, and there was only one occupied apartment here. He took cover around the bend of the hallway in darkness, and waited. 

Nathan knocked on the door that had a bar of light behind it. "Mrs Martínez? It's Nathan Ingram, I spoke to you on the phone." 

"Go away!" a tremulous voice came from behind the door. "You will bring trouble to my door! Go!" 

Nathan ran his hands through his hair. "Mrs Martínez, I think you're in danger." 

"Ha! You try being a widow and five feet tall in New York these days! I am always in danger! I am in danger when I am buying groceries! Still, I am not moving." 

"I understand that," said Nathan. "I really do, but Mrs Martínez – may I call you Maria?" 

"No, you may not!" The door opened a crack, and John, peering down the hallway, saw a crowded apartment, with a tiny woman huddled against the door. She held a kitchen knife, point extending just past the threshold. "You go away, or I will call the police." 

At the sight of the knife, Nathan stepped back. "The police won't come, Mrs Martínez. You know that – they didn't come when Mr Delgado was robbed and beaten. They didn't come when someone killed the Halversson's dog and left it on their door. Your landlord has been paid a great deal of money to empty this building of tenants, and the police are almost certainly taking a slice of that payment in return for doing absolutely nothing." 

Nathan was a salesman, thought John, but there was an identifiable pause between his sentences that said he was also being fed names and suggestions via that earpiece. 

"I know they'll be here soon," said Nathan. "I'm just one man. I don't know if I can keep you safe. And forgive me, but a kitchen knife won't protect you against guns." 

Mrs Martínez made a scornful sound. "You? You're soft. All you are good for is stopping bullets. Me? When I was sixteen in Zapaca, I killed a man. He had a machine gun. I had a hoe."

John grinned; whatever the hell was happening here, he was rooting for Mrs Martínez. 

"Uh," said Nathan. "Impressive as that is…" he seemed at a loss for words. 

"Let them come," said Mrs Martínez. "I am old. I am not afraid to die. I will take one of them with me when I go. At least one," she amended, fiercely. 

The elevator dinged and Nathan jumped, staring at it perplexed. "I thought that wasn't working." 

Someone had managed to turn the elevator back on, and now the door opened on a wall of muscle: seven men armed with guns and baseball bats moved out into the hallway. 

"Gentleman," Nathan said, spreading his arms expansively as he walked towards them. "Tell me how much it will cost me to have you leave right now? Don't be modest; I'm thinking fifty thousand. Cash. Right now." He reached inside his coat as if to get a wad of notes, and John tensed, expecting him to pull a weapon of some sort, but the fool actually pulled out his wallet. 

The men had a quick conference between them, made the sensible decision to shoot Nathan and take the money from his body, and raised their guns. John moved quietly behind the group, planning his movements for the next twenty seconds: disarm the men, disrupt the group, get Mrs Martínez to safety. 

Nathan, dismayed, kept walking. "Okay, a clear hundred thousand, then. We could do a half now, half later situation. Come on, that has to be at least fifteen times what you've been paid…" He flinched when one man's trigger finger started moving, but John got an elbow under the man's arm, and forced his shots upwards into the ceiling. 

The group of men folded inwards like a paper flower, and John reeled them in one by one until he'd taken them all down. Two were dead, two were bleeding out, and three more rolled groaning on the floor. The seventh, the one with a chain wrapped around his palm, John pushed up the wall with the man's own gun to his temple. "Go back, tell your boss this isn't happening." When he let the man drop to the floor, he bolted down the emergency stairs. 

In the fray, Nathan must have caught a bullet because he lay flat on his back, his coat fanned out like wings. His eyes were closed and he did not move. John holstered his own weapon and walked cautiously up the hall to crouch beside him. He put a finger to the man's throat, felt the pulse there ticking fast but even. 

Mrs Martínez watched him warily through the crack of the door. "I told him he was only good for stopping bullets," she said, though John could tell from her face that she was more worried than her disparaging tone let on. "Is he dead?" 

John shook his head, and reached inside Nathan's shirt to reveal a Kevlar vest. He ran his hands down Nathan's body, checking for any other injuries, and decided that Nathan was just stunned by the impact. Probably the first time he's been hit, John reasoned. He stared at the man, trying to understand. Was this some kind of vigilante thing? Then he remembered the earpiece and plucked it out of Nathan's ear, put it in his own. 

"Nathan!" The presumed Harold sounded frantic. "Nathan, can you hear me?" The voice was familiar, but in the moment, John didn't have time to analyse it closely. He'd save that for when he was clear of danger.

"Nathan is taking a little nap right now," John said. "But don't worry; he'll wake up soon with a hell of a bruise." 

There was a long silence. "Who is this?" Harold's voice was controlled now. In the background, John heard the tapping of keys. "Is Nathan hurt? Mrs Martínez?" 

"I'm a passer-by," said John. His heartbeat was settling now, thumping nice and steady in his chest, but under it he felt a weird, jubilant euphoria. "Your friend Nathan is an idiot and he's going to get himself killed. You're lucky he wore a vest tonight. And Mrs Martínez is fine; she was too smart to walk up to a firefight with open arms." 

There was another silence on the line. Then, "Ah, I see. You gained access via the fire escape, just before he arrived." 

John froze. He hadn't seen any cameras. This wasn't a high-security area. He walked down the hallway and peered through the dirty window onto the street. There was an ATM two doors down across the street, but that shouldn't be able to see this building. Then he stepped over the bodies and kicked in the door of an empty apartment to peer down the fire escape. The windows of the next building were very close, less than three feet away. He saw a phone light up on a desk, where it was propped upright on a charger. While he watched it, the phone opened its own camera app, and John ducked back behind the window.

In his ear, Harold spoke, his voice disturbingly calm. "Oh, I got the photo twelve seconds ago. I merely lit up the screen so you would know that I was serious." Then, because this Harold was apparently an asshole extraordinaire, he texted the image directly to John's phone. 

John gazed at the photo of himself, standing square in front of the window with narrowed eyes. "Well, now I'll have to have to find you and kill you," he said.

"Wonderful," said Harold. "Would you mind bringing Nathan back when you do that? Despite what he said, Mrs Martínez has called the police after all." 

Nathan by now was conscious, rocking on his back like a turtle, clutching his chest with both fists. 

"Is he having a heart attack?" asked Mrs Martínez. "My husband, the day he died, he did that. But he turned blue." 

"Leave me to die," said Nathan, hoarsely. "But take some pictures first. Do it for the Vine." 

Mrs Martínez snorted. "Nobody uses the Vine anymore. Even I know that." 

Nathan blinked up at the figure standing over him. "John? Is that you?" 

In John's earpiece, Harold made a choking noise, as if something he had been sipping had gone down the wrong pipe. "How is it that Nathan knows your name?" 

John ignored Harold, and hauled Nathan groaning to his feet. "Come on," he said, hooking an arm under his shoulder. He turned to Mrs Martínez. "And you pack a bag. This man is going to pay for an extremely good hotel room for you to stay in." 

"I told you…" Mrs Martínez drew a deep breath, ready to launch into her spiel about how she would not be moved and John cut her off, this time in Spanish.

"I thought a woman who killed a junta soldier with a hoe would be smarter in her defiance of a greedy rich man. But, please, stay here, get killed and prove me wrong." 

Mrs Martínez gave him a dark look. "I'll fetch my bag." 

"Thank you," said Harold, in John's ear. "I've organised a car to take Mrs Martínez to the Four Seasons, where I've booked a suite. A very nice suite. And then, if you'd be so kind, I'd appreciate some kind of conversation about your connection to Nathan." 

John helped them both to the elevator and bundled Mrs Martinez, still protesting, into a sleek limousine to take her to the Four Seasons. He made the driver promise to stop and collect her daughter on the way. 

Once the limo had zoomed quietly away from the curb, a breathless Nathan opened his shirt and plucked at the Velcro straps of his vest. "Wow! That was something else," he said, poking his fingers into the bullet dents strafed across the front panels, then gave John a goofy grin. "Hey, you."

John pushed the vest back in position, pulling the straps tight around Nathan's chest, ignoring his groan of pain. "You leave that on until you're back home," he said, buttoning the shirt up again. "You're not safe yet." 

"But you won't shoot me," Nathan said, perplexed. "We're friends." 

"How, precisely, are you two friends?" Harold asked in the earpiece.

"We're not friends," said John, to both of them. "We're friends of a friend. And you're still in a danger zone, so leave your vest on. Also, you don't know I won't shoot you. I might yet; that was a stupid, stupid stunt you pulled back there." 

Nathan blew out a startled breath. "This never happens to Batman," he said, holding his ribs. 

John laughed, at the same time as Harold in the earpiece said in a disgusted tone, "Wonderful. He thinks he's Batman now." 

In his memory, John finally found a face for that dry, calm voice: this was the man from the hotel suite in Paris, the one who had difficulty walking, and presumably the occasional wheelchair user. When John thought about it, he was also the only person in Nathan's entourage who never appeared on social media or even in public with Nathan. He watched Nathan, walking up and down the sidewalk holding his aching ribs with an amazed expression, as if pain was an extraordinary experience, though he'd clearly been through worse after the explosion at the ferry terminal. The mysterious Harold was definitely more camera-shy than Nathan with his scars and his easy smile. 

"You want to go somewhere before the police arrive? We could maybe get a drink," Nathan said, staring down the empty street. He raised his eyebrows at John. "I can pick your brains for tips on how to be a better Batman." 

"You are not to get a drink with him," Harold snapped in John's ear. "Bring him home immediately. I'm sending another car." 

John pointed to his earpiece. "Daddy says no," he said. "He wants you home before curfew or you're grounded." 

The sarcasm had the desired effect. Nathan made a face, and reached – albeit slowly, he'd learned enough not to engage John's startle reflex – for the earpiece. John let him pluck it out and watched as he turfed it into the nearest garbage can. 

Nathan held out his hand. "Give me your phone," he said. 

"Why?" John didn't move. This was an interesting dynamic: Harold had less control over Nathan than he let himself believe. Nathan was clearly some kind of adrenaline junkie, and he was high on the aftereffects of… whatever it was they were doing here. John found he desperately wanted to know. And not just because of the potential risk to Jessica, either.

Nathan stepped a little closer, and, still moving carefully, reached inside John's coat, checking each pocket. "Because my friend has probably jacked the microphone." He extracted it and flipped it over, removing the SIM. "He's sneaky that way," he said. He slipped the phone back in John's pocket and held the SIM between his forefinger and thumb, then snapped it in two.

Nathan had obviously been right about the police being paid off: after all this time and the sound of many shots, there were sirens finally circling in on their location. John looked into Nathan's face, took in the elated expression, the invitation in his face. He smiled back and with professional élan took Nathan's arm to turn them both towards the nearest bar. 

"Let's get that drink and see where we go from there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is set in 2011 when Vine was still kind of a thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is assigned a disturbing new target.

Fukuoka to Denver, and John felt the thin, cold air of a Colorado winter cut into each breath. He breathed over his clasped fingers, and stamped his feet into the patchy snow on the gravel that covered the grounds of the meatworks.

Kara swung her legs, drumming her feet on the side of a chest freezer. "I love this weather, don't you?" She was rugged up, scarf over her mouth, beanie pulled low on her forehead. 

John shrugged, and checked the height of the morning sun as it crept over the snow. The meatworks was, by necessity, a long way out of town, and there were trees everywhere. He'd left messages for Jess over the past week to let her know he was in the country, but she hadn't gotten back to him. 

Kara threw her hat at him to get his attention. "Cheer up, lover. You're usually so chipper when we're on home ground." Underneath her, the freezer suddenly bucked and shook. Kara whooped and held on, grinning. "Someone's back from the dead." 

They hauled the man out and tipped him naked into the snow. John held him still with a foot while Kara crouched down beside him. 

"Hey there, rabbit," she said. "You wanna tell us how to open that locked safe in your boss's office? The one you're not supposed to know about?" 

The man gibbered and gasped, blinking in the light reflected off the snow, his skin turning bright red where it touched the frozen ground. He didn't produce intel of any worth, so Kara stepped back and gave John a nod. 

John pulled the man upright by his arms, and looked into his bruised and bleeding face. "If you know anything, you should tell us. Things are not great for you right now, but we can make it so much worse." 

Kara snickered to herself. She pulled one leg up behind her then the other, stretching like a runner. "I'm ready for a chase. God, I love this weather." 

"Come on, you can do it. Tell me," John said, his voice calm and gentle. "If you know anything at all, tell me, and I'll take care of you. It won't be bad. I promise." Behind him Kara stretched her arms and cracked her knuckles. The sound ricocheted off the snow, a sharp crackling of bone. 

The man's face was terrified, covered in blood and snot, and the tears from his streaming eyes. "I don't know anything about it! I swear!" 

John shook his head. He let the man go, and stepped away. His disappointed expression wasn't a show: this guy was in too deep not to know what they needed. After the dirty work is the wrong time to show loyalty. Now there wasn't much John could do for him. 

"Okay," said Kara. "Time for bad cop. Tell you what, though. I'll give you a head start." 

John waited until Kara had sprinted off into the woods after her quarry. When the sound of branches snapping had moved far enough away, he swapped the sim in his phone and tried Jess again. 

_"This is Jessica – you missed me. Leave a message."_

He hung up, took a few steps in the snow. The snapping of branches had stopped and the woods were quiet. This would be the eye of the storm before the screaming started, as Kara gave the man one last chance to speak. 

John stared at the screen, then looked up the number for the hospital in New Rochelle. 

This anxiety was odd, and John couldn't identify why he felt it at all, since he and Jess could easily go months without communicating. Something pushed him to keep checking on her, to keep leaving messages, and now he just gave in and called her work. Jessica worked in the ER; surely someone there would know if she was okay. 

He was put through to the triage desk. "Is Jessica Arndt working today? I'm trying to get in touch but she's not picking up her phone." 

A gunshot barked through the woods, followed by a muffled screaming that tailed off. John cupped his fingers around the phone. The nurse on the other end was explaining that they don't give out personal information about staff. 

"I understand," he said. "I don't want her details – I have them here – but can you just tell me that she's okay? I'm out of the country."

There was a silence at the other end of the line. "Is your name John?" the woman asked. 

John hung up immediately and swapped out his sim again, feeling the chill of sweat on his back. Then Kara emerged from the woods, blood-stained and triumphant, holding a severed hand by the fingertips. She strode up to John and held it up, while it dripped from the wrist, turning the snow a vivid red. 

"I know where they're stashing their goods," she said. "But we're going to need this for the fingerprint scanner." 

John glanced back at the meatworks. "I'll go find a cooler," he said. "And you should probably take a shower before we hit their depot." 

After washing and changing, Kara was obviously feeling spent, because she let John take the wheel for the drive down the mountain. 

"I've got your back. You know that, right?" She eyed him with half-closed eyes, curled in the passenger seat while John negotiated each hairpin bend. 

John glanced at her quickly as he gently tapped the brakes. The car slithered on ice then found traction again. "Sure," he said, easily. "Something up?" 

Kara gave a half-shrug. "Mark's been sniffing around." 

Long, long practice stopped John's immediate reaction, but cold started to spread from his core. "He say something to you?" If he'd made an error, if he'd somehow put Jess in danger… 

"No," said Kara. "But you know Mark. He'd rather let us pull each other to pieces than tell us the truth. So if it's you he's after, I've got your back. And if it's me?" 

"I've pulled you out of worse than anything he could cook up for us," said John. 

Kara smirked and held up the cooler. "Shake on it?" 

John shook his head and punched her in the arm. "Keep your hands to yourself, Kara."

  


* * *

  


"Did you call the hospital? Jesus, John, don't do that again. You were lucky you got Shelley. I'm fine. Stop freaking out, or we can't do this thing, okay?"

  


* * *

  


It was a month before Mark made contact in person, and by then they were in Madrid. John had stopped calling Jess, hadn't checked her online activity, hadn't even let himself think about her. He was slouched behind the wheel of his car, listening to Kara negotiate entry into the Philippine Embassy, when he saw Mark approach. Mark walked slowly down the street, one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a cardboard tray with coffee and a paper bag. John surreptitiously loosened the gun on his hip and put his earpiece on the dash. When Mark reached the parked car, he slipped into the passenger side and held the bag out for John. John ignored it; he wanted no obstacles if he had to fight his way out of this. 

"Come on, John. It's a peace offering. I know Kara's already spilled the beans." Mark propped the tray on the dash and took out a cup, turning it to read the felt tip markings on the side. "I'll say this for you guys: there's no prying the two of you apart." 

John felt his lips curl into a tooth-baring smile. "Something you need, Mark?" 

"Well, since you ask." Mark nudged the cardboard tray with one finger to reveal a set of photographs: John and a tall man sitting close at a bar, John and the same man locked in an embrace beside a brick wall. Nathan cupped John's face as if holding something precious. "We've got some questions about this Nathan Ingram." 

John almost exhaled with relief: it wasn't Jess, it wasn't anything to do with Jess. He didn't even care that his brief, ill-considered and somewhat drunken tussle with Nathan had been caught on camera. Jess was safe.

A sharp rustle brought him back to the car. Mark had the paper bag and rummaged for a pastry. He proffered the bag to John. John, still wary, ignored it. 

Undismayed, Mark bit into the pastry and chewed. "Calm the fuck down, John. We don't care where you get your jollies," he said through a mouthful of almonds and powdered sugar. "It's okay. You might have done us a favour - Ingram could be useful to us. So will you just eat something already?" 

John crumpled the bag closed and shoved it onto the dashboard. "What is this about?" 

"We're interested in Ingram. Turns out another agency tried to have him terminated." Mark brushed the crumbs off his knees before taking a sip from his cup. 

"The ferry bombing?" John considered it from a professional position: so many deaths, just to kill one man. "Messy. I'd have targeted more closely." 

"Isn't it, just?" Mark said. "Kind of makes you wonder what kind of cowboys were gunning for him." He answered John's question before it was voiced. "We don't know which agency. Probably no agency; I think it came from one of the niche Homeland Security groups. ISA, maybe. Fucking dilettantes." 

John knew the type, the small, elite shadow agencies that came together and drifted apart like so much flotsam on an ocean of intelligence work. It was difficult to imagine Nathan Ingram tangled up in that world, with his open smile and his inability to stop running his mouth off. 

"How long have you two been together, then?" Mark leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, as eager and conversational as a tennis wife. 

John took the paper bag and opened it, heady with relief that the real secret, the most important secret was still safe. He took out a pastry and considered it, then took a bite. "Just the once. I got a sketchy vibe from him at the tech summit in Paris, so I followed it up the next time we were in the same city." 

Mark pulled almonds off his pastry, thinking. "Did you see anything of value? Any sign he's been cultivated as someone's asset?"

John felt a bubbling of laughter, and only barely managed to suppress it. He thought of Nathan's blundering attempts to help Mrs Martínez. "You know what he does? The guy is an honest-to-God vigilante."

"What?" Mark's expression was disbelieving. Appalled, even. "Like, in a cape?" 

John thought back to that night, when Nathan had dragged him to a hotel, classy and discreet, how they'd torn clothes off each other and fucked, Nathan high on the success of what he termed 'the mission' and John high on seeing behind Nathan's public image. 

"No capes. No weapons at all, apparently." 

Mark made a noise of disgust. "Are you fucking kidding me?" 

John shook his head. "I think it's the latest extreme sport, or something. For the hyper-wealthy, when they're bored with high-altitude climbing and space tourism, they go and stop muggers, beat up on slum lords, that sort of thing." It was the only explanation he could pry out of Nathan, but it was entirely backed up by the haphazard way he and his friend Harold conducted their activities. 

"You know, sometimes I wonder why we bother keeping civilisation back from the brink at all," said Mark. "Okay, it won't hurt to encourage that relationship. I'll check out the bombing, see if I can track down who put a bead on Ingram's back and why." He checked his watch. "What is Kara doing in there, anyway?" 

John checked the clock on the dash, just as a large explosion rocked the embassy building. Kara's voice was audible from the earpiece on the dashboard, screaming obscenities in Spanish and Filipino, underscored by automatic gunfire. 

Mark wiped his mouth with a napkin and balled it up, pitching it into the back of the car. "Well, I look forward to reading this report. See you later." 

Once Mark was safely clear of the car, John started the engine and circled around to their pre-arranged exit point. 

With official sanction to cultivate Nathan Ingram as an asset, John found that he and Kara were sent to the US very quickly. He told Kara about Mark's visit, and predictably, she was also bored and unimpressed with Nathan's vigilante activities. 

"Leaves me time to work on my side project," she said with a wink, lolling on her back in a hotel room in Los Angeles. She propped a foot on John's chest. "I'll call if I need help – you better drop that rich loser and come running." 

John kept cleaning his gun, weaving his arms around her leg to fit the pieces back together. "You never need help, Kara," he said. "But sure. I've got your back." 

The next morning, they flew to New York and split up at the airport. It was strange to be walking the same path he took for assignations with Jess, and not be able to risk contacting her. It was strange to be so close and still in work mode. 

John showered in his hotel room, then perched on the end of the bed with his phone. 

"You're right about calling the hospital, and I'm sorry," he said to Jess's message bank. "I'm going to be under closer scrutiny, so I won't be able to meet up for a little while. You take care, Jess. I'll let you know when it's safe again." 

That afternoon, he kept an eye on Nathan's minute-by-minute social media stream. 

By mid-afternoon, he and his entourage had landed for a late and noisy lunch. John checked his reflection in the mirrored door of his room, then took a cab to the restaurant. 

The restaurant was crowded, but John wove between the tables until he caught Nathan's eye, then nodded towards the bathrooms. 

Nathan smiled and nodded back, distant and polite, the greeting of one business man to another and nothing of interest. He squeezed the shoulder of the man next to him – John recognised him as the engineer, Daniel Aquino – and pushed his chair back. That gave John enough time to clear the spacious, pristine bathroom and wait. 

When the door swung open, he heard Nathan's voice. "This is an unexpected…" Then John had him by the lapels and pulled him into the room. 

Nathan made a noise of surprise, then rallied by gripping John's shoulder and kissing him open-mouthed. They bounced around the bathroom for a few minutes, first John pushing Nathan to the floor-length mirrors, then Nathan pressing John against the wall. John put his teeth to Nathan's neck, worked up over the pattern of scars, and Nathan threw his head back, eyes closed. 

John was in professional mode, keeping one eye on the door while he unbuttoned Nathan's pants but by the time he'd slid to his knees, he realised his grin was genuine. He freed Nathan's cock from the silk boxers, licked his lips and went down on it. Nathan's hand went to John's hair instinctively, stroking and running his fingers through it while John worked the cock into his throat, and then, as John set up a steady rhythm, Nathan leaned back against the tile with a happy sigh and his palm warm on John's shoulder. 

John let his throat get wet, and angled his head the better to take Nathan deep, keeping the pace unhurried. This was easy work and pleasant work, with little threat. Jessica was safe at home, and Kara was uninterested. There was no threat, there was no urgency, and all John had to do was make Nathan feel happy and secure. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to take his time getting a mission done, and, even if he felt bad about manipulating Nathan for work, at least it was better than Mark sending someone like Kara. John could get the intel and protect Nathan at the same time, and everyone would be happy. 

As before, Nathan was a receptive and respectful partner, encouraging John with gentle touches and appreciative sounds. John held the back of Nathan's thighs, gripping hard, building him steadily towards climax. It's okay, he told himself, see – Nathan's enjoying this, it's not hurting him. This is keeping him safe.

"John," Nathan said, his voice hoarse. "John, wait…" 

John went down hard, forehead brushing the fine cotton of Nathan's shirt, and started to swallow. For a moment he wished Jessica were there, because he knew he was good at this, knew that he had plied his skills to the best of his ability, and Jessica would like to see it. 

Above him, Nathan's breathing staggered and hitched, and his fingers curled tight on John's shoulder. "John, oh God, John…" he said, leaning on the wall, his face red and his hair in his eyes. 

John wiped his mouth and pushed away from the ground, standing up so he was facing Nathan, between his arms. "Hi," he said with a sly smile. 

Nathan huffed out an amazed laugh, and pressed his forehead to John's. "Hi," he answered. His breathing started to level out. He put a hand on John's hip. "My knees aren't what they once were, but I'd be happy to reciprocate in other ways," he offered, and he brushed the top of John's fly with a thumb. 

John caught his fingers and brought them up to cup his own face, leaned into the embrace. "Actually I was hoping you'd take me to your bat cave. Show me the ropes." 

"Oh, the ropes?" Nathan grinned, playing along. "We're going to get out the ropes now?" 

John shrugged. "I don't have anywhere else I have to be right now." 

Nathan glanced over his shoulder towards the door. "I do, unfortunately, and I'm going to assume you don't want to come and meet my friends?" 

The offer was tentative and said that Nathan had surmised more about the nature of John's work than John expected. He shook his head, fixing and chagrined smile on his face. "Socialising in public isn't an option for me, but I wanted to see you before I collapsed and slept off the jetlag." he said. 

Nathan's expression cleared. "Oh, if you need a place to stay," he said, fishing in his pockets, retrieving a set of keys. "Here, I've got a loft. I know it's not exactly a bat cave, but it does the job." 

Just like that, thought John, taking the keys. Too trusting. Nathan pulled him into a quick, firm hug, then went back to his friends. John washed his face, waited a few minutes to give Nathan a clear break, then left the restaurant 

As it eventuated, the apartment was elegant but as anonymous as a hotel room. John picked over the scant belongings Nathan kept here, planted a few bugs – low tech tape recorders and mikes, cold war stuff that shouldn't alert the mysterious and tech-savvy Harold – and took a long and luxurious shower. 

He heard the door open while he was still lingering under the high-pressure jets. He turned the water off, listened for the identifying sound of Nathan's steps: confident, carefree, tapping down the short flight of stairs. When he heard Nathan at the bedroom door, John wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped back into the bedroom. 

Nathan's grin at the sight of John was gratifying, but the way he left his phone and wallet unguarded on the bureau by the door was even better. John let Nathan reach for him, pressed his wet body against Nathan's shirt, and threw himself into working Nathan hard enough that he fell asleep. 

Last time, they'd both been tipsy, and the time before it had been all about Jessica. Now, with sobriety, privacy and time, John could get to know Nathan's body on his own terms: older but fit, tanned in that way that spoke of vacations in sunny places, and covered in a spectrum of fading bruises, presumably from his vigilante activity. He kissed one just above Nathan's hip; the clear print of a boot heel, it was still dark and purpling at the centre. Nathan hissed as John pressed his mouth to it. 

Nathan traced one of the circular scars on John's back to distract him. "I know, it's all a tragic amateur effort that's eventually going to get me killed," he said. "And meanwhile you're taking bullets to protect the country." 

"It's not a competition," John said, then closed his eyes as Nathan curled his hand under John's thigh and crooked the leg up so he could grind against John's cock. 

"If it were, you'd be the winner," Nathan said against John's collarbone. "But I'm okay with that." 

Later, Nathan lay dozing, his legs caught in the tangled sheets, while John explored the spray of star-shaped scars cast across Nathan's face and along the side of his body. It was clear he'd turned side-on as the bomb went off, catching most of the shrapnel and fire on his right. He'd been incredibly lucky, John thought. Bombs were like that: arbitrary and chaotic. 

"I saw a penny," Nathan said quietly with his eyes closed. 

John rested his cheek on Nathan's chest. "Did you pick it up?" 

"At the ferry terminal, I did," said Nathan. "My mom used to always say the Rockefellers didn't get where they are by walking past loose change, and it gave me a habit. A good habit, as it eventuated. That penny saved my life." He shifted underneath John. "The people next to me didn't make it. And my friend was further away, but he took worse damage than I did. Well, his heart didn't stop like mine did – that was the concussive blast, the doctors tell me – but he's still being patched up." His eyes were open now, but they gazed up at the ceiling and into the past, a long way distant. 

That friend would be the mysterious Harold, John thought. Harold of the occasional wheelchair and walking stick. Harold the amateur plumber, the one John never saw on social media. Harold the unknown tech genius who had hacked his phone. 

"Why do you think it happened to you?" John asked, hoping a metaphysical question might lead to fact. 

Nathan wasn't a successful businessman for nothing, though. He rolled on his side and gave John a wicked grin. "You're interrogating me," he said. "How terrifying." 

John cupped his cheek. "Oh, this isn't an interrogation," he said, darkly. "Trust me, when it's an interrogation, you'll know about it." 

Nathan laughed, and let John kiss him open-mouthed. John arched up over Nathan, straddled him, already hard after their last tussle. 

"You're going to kill me," Nathan said. "I survived the bomb, only to die the most ignoble of billionaires' deaths." He sighed, smiling up at John who watched him through lowered eyelashes. "But what a way to go." 

John smirked but before he could usher Nathan a little closer to death by sex, Nathan's phone trilled and buzzed awake on the nightstand. At the sound, Nathan reached out to grab and quiet it. John politely rolled off him and to the edge of the bed, ostensibly giving Nathan a little privacy. He held his breath and listened carefully, though, and he thought he heard sobbing on the other end of the line. A woman? Someone who was clearly upset, anyway. 

"Are you hurt?" Nathan said, pushing himself upright. Without looking, he reached back and squeezed John's shoulder, than strode into the living room, still talking to the woman on the phone. "Is there anyone there with you?" 

John waited until he heard Nathan settle onto the sofa, then he stretched himself out long in the bed and plumped up a pillow. He'd bugged the entire living room with old-school tape recorders and microphones sensitive enough to pick up both Nathan and the voice of the woman on the line. He let his eyelids dip while Nathan talked quietly, and he only woke when Nathan tapped on the doorframe. 

"I have to head out," he said, apologetically. "Will you be okay here on your own? You've got keys, and if you need anything, the concierge is on call."

John propped his head on his arm. "Everything all right? I don't mean to pry but that sounded intense. I'm on leave if you need help." 

Nathan shook his head, then gathered his clothes and a fresh shirt. "That's kind, but it's a personal matter. I've got a friend having a difficult time, and she needs support." 

"Then she's lucky to have you," said John. He stood, wrapped a damp towel round his waist and at the doorway, kissed Nathan once on the lips then passed him a pair of cufflinks from the open case on the dresser. "Go – I'll be fine here." 

At the outer door, Nathan paused, sliding the cufflinks into place and straightening each sleeve. "It's hard to do the right thing sometimes," he said. "It can be difficult to see beyond the immediate. But I promised myself after the bombing that people were going to come first." His shoulders were tense, and something about his posture made John's instincts bristle.

John forced his body language into casual quiet, but his palm itched suddenly for the weapon he'd left stashed in his luggage. "Then go and do what you have to do," he said. "I'll wait." 

Once Nathan was gone and enough time elapsed for him to be out of the building, John retrieved the recorder, rewound the tape and slipped in an earbud. 

"Where are you now?" Nathan's voice was loud in the microphone, and John dialled the volume down, playing with the levels until he could hear the other voice clearly. The woman was panicking, sobbed into the phone, unintelligible until she managed to choke out a few words. 

"I went to Shelley's, but I was scared she'd call the police. So I drove into the city and now I don't know what to do," she said. It was Jessica's voice, and the anguish in her voice brought John's weapon to his hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns that Jessica is far from safe, and that Nathan has been trying to help her.

Nathan was long gone by the time that John got to the street. There wasn't anything analogue small enough to fit inside Nathan's cufflinks, so John had taken a chance that Harold wouldn't immediately detect one of the CIA's finest and smallest GPS trackers. This risk was apparently paying off: John had a strong signal coming through. He hailed a taxi and directed it towards the moving tracker. 

There was a certain disconnect, bringing his work skills into play while thinking of Jess. John had put a lot of effort into the kind of compartmentalisation that allowed him to switch from his time as an agent to his time with her. The separation between these two worlds wasn't just uncomfortably blurred now, it had been wiped out completely. 

He sat, still and calm, as the taxi brought him to the Pierre Hotel where Nathan's signal had stopped moving. The lobby was thick with evening guests, dressed in finery and moving in glittering waves to rows of taxis and town cars ready to ferry them to theatres and restaurants. John made his way towards the front desk, prepared to bribe the concierge to find out what room Nathan held in this hotel, then rethought the situation. Nathan's friend Harold was certainly paranoid enough to counter-bribe the obvious staff. The ones John should talk to were the maids and bellhops, who were invisible to the extremely wealthy. He diverted himself to a door marked 'Staff Only' and pushed through to the lockers. 

Five hundred dollars later, John knew Nathan was staying in the Villaneuve Suite on the forty-third floor. He took a service elevator up to the floor below, broke into the room underneath the suite, fortunately empty, and went out on the balcony. Forty-two floors above the street, the traffic was a river of light and a soft whisper punctuated by the occasional siren. John hoisted himself over the tall glass safety panels present to stop people doing just that, and jammed the toes of his shoes under the glass while he searched for handholds. He balanced very lightly on the corner of the glass panels then hauled his bodyweight up a floor, walking some of the way up with his feet against the wall. John checked that the drapes were closed on the wide double doors into the suite, and then bellied up and over to solid ground again. He pressed his ear to the glass door while he checked himself over: weapons in place, both shoes on, nothing broken in the adrenaline of the climb. 

The glass doors were double-glazed but thanks to the vintage of the Pierre and the traffic sounds being so muted at this height, John could hear muffled voices from within. He crouched on the balcony in the darkness and slowed his breathing, willed his heartbeat to settle, and the words became clearer. 

"You know we'll do anything we can to help you." This voice, calm and paternal, was Nathan. The serious protective tone was very different to the one he used with John. With John, he had been all merriment and lightness. 

There was more crying, a soft and tired sob which, if this was Jessica, made John's fists clench. Then she spoke, and it was undeniably Jess. "You don't understand. You don't know what it's like when things are good between us."

John knew he should get himself off this balcony and secure the room, but he kept crouching by the glass door, trying to find meaning for Jessica's words. Had he hurt her without realising? That would explain the way they had drifted over the past months, and the growing disconnection he'd felt from her. It made sense to him: his work had begun to infiltrate even the few moments they managed to spend together. 

"It's not that I don't – it's not…" Jessica's words tripped and stumbled from her lips in a way that was not like her at all. John had the creeping sensation that he was hearing lines from a play, people playing characters and emulating speech patterns completely alien from themselves. "I know the clichés. I know what you think is going on between us, but it's not like that. This isn't that thing you see on daytime drama. We have really happy times. I love him. Our lives are real, we have real problems and we solve them and it's okay. Most of the time it's okay." 

Nathan's voice was steady and quiet, low enough John had to hold his breath to catch the words. "You don't have to justify anything to me, Jessica. You know that. But this? This isn't okay." 

There was a pause, and then Jessica gave a sharp cry, of pain or fear. John didn't stop to parse the difference. He pushed open the French doors, and moved through the drapes at speed, taking in the layout of the room while he strode across to where Nathan stood. Before anyone could take a breath, while their expressions were just beginning to show surprise, he put the gun against Nathan's ribs, standing close enough that the weapon was invisible to anyone in the room. 

"John?" Jessica's expression was pale, and she had dark shadows under her eyes. She looked hastily dressed: hair scraped back in a ponytail, no make-up, rumpled jeans and t-shirt, all too light for the winter weather. 

She sat on a sofa upholstered in thick silver velvet, her arms wrapped around her body. Behind her stood Nathan's friend Harold, his eyes wide and horrified at the sight of John. John was just as startled. He hadn't known Harold was even in the room: the man hadn't said a word the whole time John had been listening. 

Nathan stood stock still beside John, breathing fast in a way that told John he understood exactly what John did for a living and how close to death he was right now. John kept one hand on Nathan's hip to stop him moving away from the muzzle of his gun, and made a quick and professional assessment of the room. 

It was lavishly furnished, with solid marble and dark wood: low sofas and a dining table and lots of open space. John's feet sunk into deep pale plush, an expensive carpet to maintain in a hotel. This was clearly the hub of the suite, since three doors opened onto it, aside from the balcony and the main entrance. Neither Nathan nor Harold were obviously armed, and he doubted they were the kind to be able to conceal weapons skilfully. Jessica, though upset and afraid, seemed unhurt. 

"What are you doing here?" she said, into the lengthening silence. She looked past him to the balcony, unbelieving. "Were you out there all the time?" 

"Jess," he said. "Let me get you out of here."

Her expression was one of absolute confusion. She picked up her glass, a balloon with an inch of golden liquor in it, and took a sip, then another. 

"What did you do?" This was from Harold, and it was directed at Nathan. "Good God, Nathan, have you been seeing him?" 

Nathan clearly was the idiot Harold accused him of being, because John saw him smirk. John turned his own gaze on Harold, kept it cold. He'd kill both of them if they'd hurt Jessica. 

"Stop it!" Jessica said. She stood up, still holding the snifter, and walked over towards them. "John, this is nothing to do with you. I don't know why you're here but I want you to go." 

"I know why he's here," Harold said, grimly. 

Nathan waved at the sofa with a soothing gesture. "Let's all sit down," he said. "We can talk through this, sort something out." 

"I don't think so," said John. He reached out, intending to take Jess's elbow. "We'll be leaving now." He knew how this would go. He'd get Jessica safely behind him and then they'd walk out of this room together. 

It was entirely unexpected, so it caught him by surprise. The moment he touched Jessica's arm, she swiftly and unexpectedly smashed the glass into his temple.

Anyone else, he could have dodged. Anyone else, including Kara Stanton who moved like an adder when she was on the attack, he could have caught by the wrist, wrenched their arm behind their back, maybe snapped their neck. But Jess? Jess, he would let cut out his heart. He registered her movement, calculated her trajectory and then shut his eyes, let the glass crush into his skin. This was what she wanted, and frankly, he probably deserved it. 

Several things happened in the next few moments: the glass cracked like a good quality Easter egg, in large pieces and few shards. One of those sliced cleanly into Jess's palm and she screamed. One gashed John in a long line through his hair, and as he grabbed for Jess, he felt warmth pulse down his face. 

Nathan turned towards them, forgetting John's weapon, his hands outstretched and face aghast. John took Jess in his arm and forced her behind him, bringing his weapon up, taking aim at Ingram in one smooth movement. 

Harold stepped awkwardly around the sofa and shouted in a much bigger voice than John would have thought he had. "Stop!" 

Nathan froze, now facing John, palms open, expression horrified. John kept his gun up, safety off, but did not shoot. Behind him, Jess sobbed. John heard the slow and steady drip of blood onto the thick plush of the carpet. She was alive, though. He would keep her alive.

"Step back, Nathan. John thinks we intend harm to Ms Arndt. Please calm down, so we can explain what's happening." 

"You don't intend harm to her?" John said, in the affable tone he used when he was about to kill someone. To Jess, in a low voice, he said, "Stay behind me, Jess. It's going to be okay." 

Jess's breathing was fast and irregular: she was panicking and a panicking person in a standoff could be a terrible, random thing. He reached behind, hoping she'd grab hold of him. No fingers clutched his, though he brushed her bare arm and felt it quake. He stood there, the only thing between these men and Jess, with his own blood dripping onto his shoulder. 

"Mr Reese," said Harold, his voice calm and steady. Hearing one of his aliases, one that Jess did not know so could not have told him, made John swing the gun in his direction. 

"That's the name you use most, isn't it?" Harold said, apparently unfazed by facing down the barrel of a gun. "I'm aware of your work for the CIA. I know you have many aliases." He put a hand out to stop Nathan from shoving him out of range of the gun. "No, I'm fine. Mr Reese won't shoot me if I don't hurt him or Jessica. It's time that we talked about why the two of them have come to our attention." 

Here it comes, though John. This was why Mark had gotten involved; this was the real reason Jessica had matched with Nathan on Angler. It was a recruitment of some kind, and here came the pitch. 

"You will have noticed that the intel delivered by your handlers in the last few years has become significantly better. The… technology which supplies that intelligence is also able to detect when civilians are in danger." 

This was not the conversation he was expecting. John's lips were dry, which always happened to him when he was in the middle of a standoff, something to do with the way he breathed. That made him think of chapstick, which reminded him about the tattoo-covering concealer, which made him want desperately to turn around and ask Jess about that little glass bottle she'd left behind that day at the airport hotel. 

Nathan picked his own snifter and took a swig, as if to fortify him. "Are you sure about this, Harold?" 

Harold wheeled on him, his eyes flinty. "You are in no position to question my actions, Nathan." He eyed the man. "I know he can't have jacked your phone, so there must be a physical tracker of some sort on you. Did he give you a gift?" His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "Some token of his affection, perhaps?" 

Nathan was foolhardy but not stupid, and John could see him recalling all the points of contact they'd had today. He wasn't stupid but he had little impulse control, and his gaze flicked to his cuffs automatically. 

Harold shook his head, disbelieving and reached for Nathan's wrist. John gestured with his gun for him to stop. 

"You can pat your friend down later." He made sure to put as much bitterness into the words as Harold had a moment ago. "Improved intel delivery, you were saying?" He had to get something out of Harold, something he could bring to Mark to trade for his safety and Jessica's too. These guys were someone's assets, and someone's assets made for a good bargaining chip. 

"That's correct," said Harold. "You'll have noticed an increase in specificity in your targets, I imagine. Unfortunately for you, that also means a loss in perspective. You operate surgically for your government, but the scalpel rarely gets to see the whole body."

John's aim hadn't wavered; he kept it steady, focused on Harold's centre of mass. "How are you involved in the industry?" he said, voice calm. Staying calm would keep Jess alive, would get the two of them out of here, would help him get Jess to safety. 

Harold's expression was grim. "I'm not; neither of us have been, not since they tried to kill us at the ferry terminal. I have nothing to do with threats relevant to national security. That has been your job, Mr Reese. You're very good at it, I might add, though I believe you are becoming disillusioned with the nature of your missions." 

That would be enough, John thought. That was enough to take to Mark now. The question was whether he should eliminate the two of them, or leave them compromised but in place so Mark would be able to use them. 

Either way, it was time to go. "We're leaving." He stepped backwards so he could see Jess in his peripheral vision. She'd touched her face with her bleeding hand, and her skin, wax-pale was streaked with red. 

John reached out for her, never taking his eyes off Harold and Nathan. "Jess, take my hand." It was a command, voiced low but firm. 

"I feel sick," said Jess, her voice wobbly. "I think I'm going to puke." 

John's stomach dropped. This might not just be shock. He put a bullet into the floor in front of Harold, who jumped backwards and winced as he jarred his back. To John's left, Jess moaned and covered her ears but didn't move, just stood there, looking off into nowhere. Her expression was vacant and terrified, like nothing he could imagine on Jess's face. 

"What did you give her?" he said. He'd need to know, to see her through the worst of it, or reverse an overdose if they'd miscalculated badly. And then he'd kill these men and leave their bodies bleeding into the carpet. "Pentobarb? Midazolam?" 

"Rémy Martin," said Nathan. Frustrated he wasn't taking this seriously, John answered with a shot over the man's shoulder. The bullet hit the buffet, and a row of decanters shattered. Glass tinkled as a deep red-gold waterfall cascaded to the carpet. The air was filled with a sweet, volatile fragrance. 

"Well," said Nathan. "No more brandy for us." 

"Mr Reese, we did not drug Jessica," Harold said, his voice a little higher pitched than a moment ago. "And while you're perfectly capable of shooting us – I can assure you, you absolutely have the upper hand in this room – it will not prevent the danger that is looming." 

"I'm always in danger," John said, teeth gritted. "Why would I need you to tell me about it?" 

He was stepping towards Jessica to get an arm around her waist and bring her out of this room whether she wanted to leave or not, when he realised that they were both staring at him in surprise. 

"Mr Reese, it's not you who is in danger," Harold said. 

Beside John, Jessica was suddenly and violently sick on the carpet. There was no way John could move her, not doubled over like this, not and keep them both clear of threat by these men. He'd have to kill them, and do it in front of Jess. These two worlds were not meant to mix. Jessica was never meant to see this side of him. The corners of his eyes were tight and prickling, and he was sweating. He felt it trickling between his shoulder blades as he slid his finger against the trigger and drew breath, ready to shoot. Nathan first, because he was the bigger and more physically able of the two. He could keep Jess safe. She might hate him but he could keep her safe.

Harold's voice was calm. "Mr Reese. Put the gun away, it's frightening Jessica, and we mean you no harm." 

Nathan, his hands held comfortably above his shoulders, said, "We created a program that predicts the likelihood of a terrorist attack. It's very good. You've been working according to its predictions for a while now. Problem is, it predicts violence of any sort, not just the terrorist kind. I, uh, I tried to help those people. Nobody else would." He waved in the direction of his scarred face. "Government wasn't too happy about me still having access," he said. "They blew up an entire ferry terminal just to kill me." 

Jessica heaved again under John's arm, retching and sobbing at the same time. 

Nathan pointed at the ice bucket on the buffet. "I think Jessica would appreciate a little dignity, don't you?" he said. At John's nod, he upturned it, blithely spilling ice and water onto the carpet, and walked slowly towards them with the bucket outstretched. 

John let go of Jess for a moment and nudged her with his hip towards a chair at the dining table. He took the silver bucket and passed it to her. She leaned over it, miserable, still dripping blood from her lacerated hand. Moving very slowly, John smoothed the hair out of her face, kept it clear of the bucket and her mouth. This time, Jess didn't flinch away from him, but hugged the bucket, her shoulders heaving, whether from sobs or from vomiting, John didn't know. He still hadn't looked down at her, because he was keeping the gun trained on Harold. Harold was beginning to sway with the fatigue of standing for a long time. 

"What sort of intel do you receive?" John asked, just to keep them talking, but also to help with his risk assessment. Was this part of the vigilante thing? Was this why Nathan had been trying to save Mrs Martínez a few months ago?

Harold looked relieved, finally able to deliver information. "An identifying number of some sort," he said. "Usually a social security number, but we've had green cards, passport numbers, VA numbers. Whatever we get, it's never wrong." 

"Once we got a badge number for a Mountie," said Nathan. "That was interesting. Since we're talking now, could you see your way to letting Harold sit down?" 

"I'm fine," said Harold. "Stop worrying about me, and concentrate on not getting shot." He was standing awkwardly, though, sparing one hip by putting all his weight on the other leg, leaning into the cane. John gestured him towards the sofa and he limped across the floor, treading carefully across broken glass and melting ice cubes, then eased himself down slowly. The way he moved, he wouldn't be getting up quickly from there. Once Harold was seated, John holstered the gun, and knelt down to check on Jess. He'd see them if they shifted position. 

"Hey," he said, softly. "Hey, Jess." He could hear something dripping: blood, brandy, ice water, he didn't know. The room was a mess, and reeked of vomit and alcohol. Ingram and Harold waited patiently, staying very still. 

Jess blinked at him, tired and pale. She'd lost a lot of weight since he had seen her last. She dragged her hand across her mouth, realised her palm was bleeding, and turned it over, surprised at the cut on it. John watched her assess the cut, then look at his face with narrowed eyes. He remembered the gash on his temple and put a finger to it: sticky, warm blood came away clotted with hair. The touch dislodged something, and the wound began pulsing sluggishly, new trickles of blood running down his cheek over the dry. 

"You want me to find something to put on this?" he said, hoping professional instincts would help her rally. 

She wiped her mouth again and put the bucket down on the floor. "Yeah," she said, sounding more like herself. "What have they got for first aid?" 

John stood, still watching the two men at the other end of the room, and opened a few drawers in the buffet, looking for anything useful. Nathan pointed at the dining table, where covered dishes and a beaded bottle of wine were arranged. 

"Napkins," he said. "High thread count, should soak up blood spectacularly well." 

John gathered the napkins and gave them to Jess. She immediately balled one up in her fist, and passed one to John. "Put pressure on that," she said, her voice hoarse. 

John pressed a napkin to his temple, fetched a glass from the buffet, and not trusting the water in the pitcher, risked a step into the cavernous bathroom to fill it from the faucet. It meant he lost sight of the two men for a few seconds, but when he came out they hadn't moved. 

Jess took a few sips of water, and beckoned to him. "Come back down here," she said. "I want to check the bleeding." Her hand that wasn't holding the napkin moved awkwardly, as if not all the fingers worked properly. 

"Did you cut your other hand?" he said, while she lifted the napkin away from his temple and peered at the cut. 

"Hurt my wrist," she said. "Yours is slowing down." She relaxed her fist clutching the crumpled napkin, and blood bloomed into the linen, creeping upward into the crisp white. Jess squeezed it closed again, and used the back of her other hand to press hard on the napkin. "I think mine will need a couple of stitches." 

"How did you hurt your wrist? Did I hurt you?" The problem with working in an adrenalized state was that John didn't remember everything clearly, just the things his brain decided he needed to for survival. He worried he had grabbed her so hard she'd been hurt. 

Fresh tears streamed down Jess's face. "No," she said, her voice so faint John took his eyes off Harold and Nathan to check she wasn't passing out. Instead, colour had flooded her face and she busied herself checking her wound again. When she lifted the napkin away from the skin, blood welled across her palm alarmingly fast. The napkin was rapidly becoming soaked. John felt weirdly guilty, as if he should have broken the glass better with his head. 

Kneeling in front of her, looking up at her face, John stroked her knee gently with two fingers. "Jess," he said. "Jessie, what happened?" 

She cried openly now, the kind of weary, hopeless sobbing John had seen in warzones. She reached to the table and took another napkin, changing out the one she clutched in her hand, apparently unaware or uncaring that she was sobbing softly. 

Confused, angry, he stood and looked at the men: both of them were worried, but neither of them seemed surprised by her reaction. 

"It was Jessica's number we received, not yours," Harold said. "I know that given the nature of your work, that would not seem to make sense, but in fact, we have been receiving Jessica's number on and off for some time now. It's a situation we've seen before." 

"It's hard to get close to these people," said Nathan. He was so different from the man John had been slowly stalking: assured and calm in a way he had not allowed John to know. "For various reasons, they're in a situation where they have been carefully isolated from friends and family. They tend not to socialise much alone, they find themselves financially restricted as their partner assumes control of the family's income." 

"When we receive a number," said Harold, "It means that the person is either going to commit, or be the victim of a violent crime. When we receive a number multiple times, it usually means that they're in close contact with someone who openly or secretly considers killing them and does so repeatedly." 

John knew what they were talking about, but it didn't make sense to him. Jessica was not the kind of woman who would stay with an abusive boyfriend. She had a strong right hook and wasn't afraid to use it. Had used it on John when he'd been younger and full of himself. His stomach flip-flopped. He would have known, if Peter was hitting her. He didn't like Peter – had never liked him, even though they'd only met that once in the bar – but he had put that down to jealousy, something he didn't have the right to indulge in. 

"We had naturally assumed that you were this person," Harold went on, remorseless. "Your work was violent, your partner is…" 

"Sociopathic," John said. "It goes with the job." Jess, clearly tuned out of this conversation, now leaned against his legs, as if that were the only thing holding her upright now. He put an arm around her shoulder, kept himself very still and very solid. 

"When Nathan saw her post on Angler, he took it upon himself to make contact that way." Harold's mouth was tight with disapproval. 

"I still think it was a great plan," Nathan said. "I wish I hadn't told you, Harold. The three of us were on the way to building some rapport." 

"I'm sure you're right," said Harold. "I'm sure you would have been best of friends right up until Mr Reese's superiors ordered him to shoot you. In any case, the fact that we have Jessica's number means that someone is pre-meditating harm to her. Mr Arndt is hugely in debt, and has several loan sharks on his heels. I don't believe his financial situation is a tenable one, not without intervention. Both of the Arndts have significant life insurance policies, and while I don't believe they were purchased with murderous intent, it's possible that he has started researching the ways in which he could make a claim against his wife's." 

John by now had a hand gently curled around Jessica's head where it rested against his leg, and he hoped she couldn't hear Harold's voice through his fingers over her ear. 

"She can't go back," he said. "I won't let her go back." 

Jess pushed against his leg until he moved, and she stood. "I need a shower," she said, as if they'd been romping on the beach instead of trashing a hotel suite. "If it's anything like the last place, the shower will be amazing." 

John stared at her. "Your hand…" 

"I'll get Shelley to suture it for me. She's on night shift." Jess looked around her. "Have you seen my purse?" 

"Shelley?" The nurse, her friend at the hospital. The hospital in New Rochelle. John understood suddenly and it horrified him. "Jess, you can't go back." 

She picked up her purse where it had been discarded on the buffet, fortunately untouched by the spreading pool of brandy. "You can't stop me," she said. "It's my choice." She stopped by Nathan. "I said I didn't want him involved. You fucked up." 

Nathan had the grace to flinch at the accusation. "In my defence, I just wanted everyone to be safe and happy." 

The look she gave him was angry and disappointed. "I'm not here for the entertainment of bored billionaires," she said. She plucked at the front of her t-shirt unhappily, then sighed. "I want a shower, I want a change of clothes, and I want to go home." 

"I'll organise it right now," Nathan said, reaching for his phone. John was there in two strides, snatching it from him. 

"No reinforcements," he said to Nathan, and then to Jess, who stood in the doorway to the bathroom. "Jess, you can't go back." He walked over and she favoured him with a scathing look. 

"Are you sweeping in to save me, John? Carry me out over your shoulder? How fucking romantic. I might puke again." The scorn in her voice was so alien that John physically recoiled, and even that seemed to anger her. 

Her voice dropped to a hiss, and she jabbed him in the chest with her finger. "We were clear about what this relationship would be from the outset. You didn't want to be a part of my life, you couldn't see your way clear to giving any part of your life, and now, when you've magically decided my life isn't going the way you want it to, you're on board with these guys who want to save me. Fuck you." She shut the bathroom door in his face, and he heard the shower start. 

John stood at the door, hand on the wood, wanting very much to break it down, but thinking that it would probably make matters worse.

Behind him on the sofa, Harold spoke. "She has the right to make her own decisions," he said, quietly. "I only say because it's a lesson I had to learn. On a lesser scale, though the results were still painful." 

John turned to face him. "You've known she was in danger for how many months, exactly?" 

"Jessica's number first appeared a month after her wedding," Harold said. "I wasn't involved at the time. Nathan worked the numbers then, and he was overwhelmed. But her number appears sporadically, then tensions are resolved in the short term and the cycle repeats." 

Nathan shook his head. "The thing is, we can't force her to leave. If we try, she'll still go home, but next time she'll be less inclined to ask for help." 

"I don't care," said John. "I'll take her to a safehouse if I have to." 

"And when Ms Stanton wonders why you haven't met her in Romania?" Harold stood, creaky, and limped over to the buffet to poke at the hole in the wallpaper with the end of his cane. 

John stared at him. He'd had no message about a new mission. 

"You'll be receiving orders tomorrow morning, I believe." Harold lifted two of the intact decanters out of the brandy puddle. "When we thought you were the threat, I made sure to monitor your activity." 

John took out his own phone and put it on the table as if it were about to explode. It was supposed to be secure, it was supposed to be inviolable. Delighted to have a phone at last, Nathan picked it up and with disturbingly few movements, unlocked it and put it to his ear. 

"Hello, this is Nathan in the Villenueve Suite – I need a casual wardrobe for a woman, size…" He raised an eyebrow at Harold, who held up four fingers. "Size four. And shoes…"

"Eight narrow," said John, despite himself. 

"Eight narrow, yes. Two pairs, lovely. I'll leave the choices to you. Thank you." Nathan hung up and passed the phone back to John. "It's not jacked, by the way. You're too scrupulous for that. You and your partner both are, but you use IFT messaging software occasionally. It's not your fault; we did sell it to the CIA." Nathan settled down in a chair, pleased with himself. "So, in a way, that money is paying for Jessica's clothes. I do like the symmetry in that." 

The clothes arrived astonishingly fast, before Jess had emerged from the shower. John knocked on the door just as the water turned off, and she opened it, hair wrapped in a towel. 

John held up a suitbag for her, and a pair of pumps. "There's sandals, if you'd rather," he said. 

"These are fine," she said, and took them. "Did he get makeup?" 

"Sorry!" said Nathan, from behind John. "Don't wear it myself, didn't think of it. Not that I wear women's clothing much, either. Though I bet I'd look swell in pantyhose…" John turned away from him, left him talking to Harold about his best options for casual drag wear. Nathan was back in cheery billionaire mode, now that the immediate threat was neutralised and there were problems to solve. John couldn't believe he'd been fooled by an act, or at least a persona. He was only just realising how much of Nathan's public life was a construction. 

Jessica was still watched him, her mouth an angry straight line. She held the suitbag with her forearm, and he remembered her injured wrist. 

"Do you need help with that?" he said, then when her expression turned thunderous at the suggestion that she couldn't dress, by way of explanation he added, "Your wrist."

She looked at him for a few more moments, then nodded and let him in. 

The bathroom was enormous, bigger than he had realised when he grabbed a glass of water. Jess hung the suitbag on the towel rail and unzipped it, flicking through the clothes, and finding the underwear. It all had tags on; they must have sent someone bolting down to a department store.

"I want you to…" John said into the silence, but Jess cut him off.

"It's so not about what you want, mister," she said, and stepped into the panties. Her wrist must have been tender, because she used her pinky to pull them up. When they dragged on her damp skin, John put his hand out, and she let him finish getting them in place. He helped her with pantyhose, hooked up her bra. 

It was so commonplace, the thing that married couples do: banal, awkward and unsexy. John felt disjointed, intimate and distant at the same time. He opened his mouth to say something but again, Jess got there first. 

"That first word had better not be 'I'." She pulled her hair out of the collar of a pale blue blouse, and turned so that John could button it up. 

I'm worried about you, he was going to say. Or, I want to help. Instead, he folded her collar down, helped her into a skirt, zipped it up against her hip. 

"I can look after myself, John," Jess finally said. "I've been doing it for a while now." 

John sat on the edge of the tub and put his hands on her hips. "What do you need?" he said. 

She smiled then, a tiny curve of a thing that told him he'd done okay. "I need you to go away and let me deal with my life on my own." 

That was unacceptable, and John felt his shoulders tighten, his gut pulled in ready to fight. Jess took his hand, finally, and held it so she could look at him. 

"It's my life, John, and you chose not to be a part of it. I don't have room to make things easier for you right now, so I want you to go back to your job, and concentrate on surviving. I'll be doing the same thing." 

John couldn't look at her face without seeing his own in the mirror behind her, and for a moment, he didn't recognise either of them. They had been two kids. When had they become these solemn, battle-weary people? Everything was wrong, everything was built on wrong decisions and bad paths chosen, and there was no going back to fix any of it. He reached out and touched her face, then kissed her softly on the lips. "Okay," he said, finally, and picked up her crumpled jeans from the floor. 

"Leave them," said Jess. "I don't want to wear any of it again." She took a hand towel, wrapped it around her palm, and walked past him into the living room. 

A flurry of maids and workmen had descended on the Villaneuve suite, cleaning and tidying with studied silence. Nathan leaned against the clean end of the buffet with his coat over his arm, looking stupidly pleased with himself. Harold still sat on the sofa, engrossed in his laptop. 

"This is a rite of passage, isn't it?" Nathan said with a sigh. "Trashing my hotel room. I feel twenty years younger. I hope photos get leaked to Instagram." 

Harold gave him a disgusted look. When John and Jessica approached, he stood, apparently ready to explain something, but Nathan jumped in front of him. John thought this must be a familiar relationship dynamic for them, because Harold simply rolled his eyes and stepped back. 

"Okay," said Nathan. "I'll drive you home, Jessica, or at least to the hospital to get your hand seen to." 

Jess shook her head. "Nope. I saw how you threw that brandy back; I'm not getting in a car with you behind the wheel." She crossed her arms, considering. "I'll go with your driver, though." 

Nathan gave an easy going shrug. "Let's organise it on the way," he said, one arm outstretched in Jessica's direction. She glanced at John once before she stepped away, walking swiftly through the door while John stood in bewildered confusion. By the time he realised that this was goodbye and she was leaving, Nathan stood the elevator, talking loudly to his chauffeur, organising someone to drive Jess's car back to New Rochelle. Then the door opened, and they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two personal accounts of experience with domestic violence were really important in the way I wrote this chapter. (I'm sorry I don't have a link to the original, which was a Guardian piece): 
> 
> _I was in a domestic violence situation and it was only once I felt I could share small issues without being judged or immediately told I was a fool if I didn’t leave immediately that I started to open up and trust someone else’s perspective on my situation. Just being a soft place for those you love to share their struggles without judgement is all I can recommend._
> 
> _Don’t let someone become isolated. That’s the number one way abusers get control and that’s what my ex did. I had one friend who went through hell and high water every time I moved or changed my phone number to find me. And that always meant so much to me. It made me feel like I mattered to someone._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the confrontation with Jessica, Harold and John make some plans for the future.

In the Villaneuve suite, John's fists were clenched and his back rigid, so much so that he couldn't move. He stood there in silence, unable to go after Jess and make her stay with him, unable to consider going back to work. 

"Mr Reese," Harold said into the silence between them. The hotel staff clattered and murmured to each other as they cleaned. 

"Mr Reese," he repeated, and Harold's words finally filtered into John's consciousness. He turned meet the man's gaze, still narrow-eyed and on the alert. 

"I have some ideas about how to keep Jessica safe," Harold said. 

John's voice was hoarse; it felt like he hadn't spoken in hours. "So do I," he said. On a bike, he could be to New Rochelle before Nathan and his lumbering limousine, put Peter in the ground before night fell again, and then be on a flight to Bucharest…

"I have no doubt of that," said Harold. "Perhaps we should talk about that in private." He pointed to a door. "There are still several rooms left unscathed." 

In the smaller room there was a bed, crisp and untouched. John stared at it, and remembered the bed he, Nathan and Jess had shared. That thought sent a shiver of rage through his body, followed by hollow nausea. Harold brushed his side as he limped past, and John jumped, then sat down on the smooth bed, let his hands fall in his lap. In the quiet, he was suddenly exhausted. 

Harold opened a cupboard door to reveal a minibar, apparently to save guests from travelling the arduous distance to the living room for refreshments. He took out a box of chocolates, tore off the cellophane and opened the box. "Here," he said, proffering it in front of John. 

John stared at the chocolates, high-end Belgian squares, flecked with gold leaf. 

"Adrenaline crash," Harold said. "I'm sure you're perfectly able to deal with stress in your professional life, but an emotional ordeal takes a different toll. You should eat something, and the caffeine won't hurt." 

"I have to go," John said, but did not move. "Will she be safe with him?" Right now he didn't trust his own judgement on anything, and Nathan had shown a different side of himself tonight. 

Harold waved a hand. "Oh, yes, Nathan's driver is excellent. He's hauled Nathan out of many a publicity disaster, and he doubles as a bodyguard." He took a chocolate and slipped it out of the paper envelope, passed it to John, then opened his laptop. 

John nodded his understanding, then glance down at the chocolate between his finger and thumb. It had started to melt already with his body heat and there was nowhere to put it down in the pristine room without leaving a mess, so he ate it. 

Harold sat on the other end of the bed, and tapped away at the keyboard while John licked the melted chocolate off his fingers. "Ms Stanton is currently in Berlin, and has been for a few days. She has booked a flight to Romania for tomorrow night." He glanced up at John, blue eyes unblinking through round lenses. "Do you plan to join her when you receive orders to do so?" 

After the turbulence of the past few hours, it seemed reasonable to show doubt, here in the confines of this small, quiet room. John rested his head in his hands and tried to imagine working with Kara now, knowing Jess was in danger – had walked knowingly back into that danger. Anyone in his work has a complicated view of karma, but whatever else John believed, he knew there would be consequences for the work he'd done. He'd always assumed those consequences would fall on him, not Jess, not like this. This complicated, intimate, shameful mess of a thing that he had wound around Jessica when he had thought she would be safe… 

Harold noticed something about his posture or the pallor of his skin under the sweat and dried blood, and he reached for the chocolate box to give him another piece. 

John shook his head, and stood up to pace. If he didn't go back to Kara, what would be the consequences? He'd be burned, he'd have to go on the run, and the first place Kara would search was New Rochelle. So, go back to wetwork, and Peter kills Jessica. Don't go back, and Kara kills Jessica. Jessica wouldn't leave Peter, wouldn't now be willing to pick up and go on the run with John. 

Then he looked at Harold, really looked at him, this person who could see both sides of John's life and speak rationally about it. "What kind of operation are you running? Is it just you and Nathan?" 

"Essentially," Harold said. "We have a few people on the sidelines who have specific expertise in certain fields, but usually it's Nathan and I." 

The high-pitched whine of a vacuum cleaner started in the living room. John listened to it move back and forth for a while. "Do you manage to save any?" He suspected that if he hadn't been there to intervene with Mrs Martínez, the outcome would not have been good. 

Harold's expression was rueful. "Not as many as we'd like. We have about fifty-fifty odds, in the general scheme of things. Then again, as you saw with Mrs Martínez, we're often working outside our abilities. We're not soldiers or espionage experts. Neither of those are required in the case of Jessica's situation, however." He turned awkwardly on the bed, got his legs arranged so that he was facing John. "I wasn't joking when I said I had some ideas on keeping Jessica safe." 

John nodded, relieved. "I'd like to hear them." As he listened, he felt an eerie prickle of déjà vu: this was how it had been in the Army, conferring with others, trusting their feedback and suggestions. It had been a long time since he'd experienced that. 

Fourteen hours later, he was on a flight to Paris.

Harold had discussed options, John had assessed them and picked the ones most likely to succeed. In the hotel bedroom, they'd put together a series of plans to help keep Jessica safe. 

Harold had a frighteningly huge amount of intelligence gathered on Peter Arndt, including criminal charges that had been dropped when he was a college freshman. John now knew what the man drank, where he bought his booze, the names and faces of loan sharks he was currently in debt to, the agencies where he preferred to place his bets. The same amount had been gathered on Jessica: names and contacts of her friends and co-workers, tax returns and travel documents, even the trip they had taken to Mexico before the towers went down. Harold had even found a photograph, Jess and John on the edge of a group of people by the pool. 

"I think this was taken by the couple staying across from you," Harold said. "They were from Idaho, and she kept a travel blog. A very early one," he said with a nostalgic smile. "We still said 'weblog' back then."

Fascinated despite his exhaustion and confusion, John shook his head in wonder. "Why aren't you working for Langley?" 

"Because they are, as an intelligence agency, morally bankrupt," Harold said. 

John couldn't disagree, but he still dreaded some ulterior motivation. It was hard to believe that Harold and Nathan had done all of this work, spent all of this money altruistically. 

On the plane, John's phone beeped with a notification that an article had been added to the IFT news crawler app installed on his phone. He could easily explain away IFT proprietary software, given he was assigned to investigate the CEO. Harold had explained that the app would be safest way to communicate news about Jessica, but John had yet to see how it would work. 

The article went into a folder labelled Potential Threats, flagged as "potential traffic/source of fissionable material."

"IFT adds medical technology to its research portfolio," read the finance headline. The article showed Nathan Ingram and the nuclear engineer Daniel Aquino, talked about advances in spinal regeneration and electrical implant surgery, new MRI techniques, things that John could not find relevant. At the very bottom, though, one sentence said that IFT would be conducting the first human trials in a series of New York hospitals in Westchester County, which, when he clicked through the link to the healthcare service, included Montefiore-New Rochelle Hospital, where Jessica worked. 

Harold's plan – which could only be undertaken by a cheerfully blithe billionaire, since it required the purchase of a large stake in a healthcare franchise – was to increase surveillance on Jessica as much as possible in the days and weeks to come. An IFT subsidiary security company had been contracted by the city to patrol the streets, giving security guards every reason to loiter outside Jessica and Peter's home. 

A financial company owned by Harold under one alias or another – "I have several, and please, I'd rather you didn't generate interest by researching them." – had purchased the bank that was financing the Arndt's second mortgage, one that Harold believed Jessica was not aware of. 

"The aim is to reduce the financial stress Peter is currently struggling against, regardless of the fact that it of his own making. The more comfortable he feels, the less likely he is to strike out at Jessica, or, perish the thought, make the decision to claim against the life insurance policy." 

In the quiet hotel bedroom, Harold watched John's fists clench, and nodded towards them. "That reaction is entirely justifiable but is not going to make Jessica any safer." He waited, silent, until John relaxed his hands, let them sit open on his thighs, then continued, "I realise that it is extremely difficult for you to trust two civilian strangers with the safety of someone you care for very much. I know you want to rush in and solve the problem once and for all with a bullet. I can only tell you it is very easy to do more harm than you realise, even if you have the best intentions." 

Harold's voice had been very calm, and it lulled John into calmness too, despite that seeming an impossible thing.

"Let us protect her, keep her as safe as possible until she is ready to leave on her own. She is informed. She knows that you care and she has a line of communication with Nathan. He may be infuriating but he has an excellent way of establishing trust with frightened people." 

Then he had booked John's flight using one of John's own accounts and sent him to another hotel to wash and change. By the time he put feet on the ground in Bucharest, the cut to his temple was almost invisible, and Kara got to have a good laugh at him, assuming he was hungover. 

"I hope you didn't get all the party fucked out of you, lover," she said, wrapping her fingers around his bicep and squeezing. "I've been all alone for three days now."

The news crawler picked up articles every few minutes that John's phone was in range, most of them generally topical for John's work: geopolitical editorials, analyses of nuclear capacity, the ebb and flow of power in the Middle East and Africa. Occasionally, because any aggregator has flaws, it picked up odd and irrelevant articles, which was how he learned that Universal Heritage Insurance had, as part of a national campaign to combat domestic violence, donated a large sum of money to train phone counsellors in the Hudson Valley, as well as supporting a twenty-four hour phone service. A click through to Universal Heritage's site showed the board of directors meeting in a huge glass-walled room. John pinched and spread the photo until he saw mousy hair and spectacles, right at the far end of the table. If he hadn't already known Harold's face, he would not have been able to pick him out. The caption identified him as H. Wren, Deputy CEO. 

Harold's breadcrumbs kept him alive for the next eight weeks, because without a hint every couple of days that Jessica was alive and well, he'd probably have gotten himself and Kara killed. As it was, Kara and he had an all-out fight in Damascus, punches and bites and one bullet that took off skin by his ribs, because she didn't like that he was off his game. Or that he wouldn't tell her why he was off his game. 

"What the fuck do you need, John?" she shouted at him, uncaring that everyone on this hotel floor could hear her. Blood streamed from both her nostrils, because he had to give as hard as he got from Kara or he'd be dead. "Whatever it is, please tell me, because they will retire you if they so much as get a whiff that you've lost your edge. And they'll send me to hell straight after you, if they don't get me to do the job." She came at him again, and he caught her hands before she could get the gun up to his face. "I'll do it, John. Don't think for one second that I won't put a bullet right in that thick skull of yours." 

He didn't doubt it, and it took hours to mollify her to the point where she was willing to work with him again. While she slept, exhausted and drained from the fight and the bedroom tussle that came after, John packed his mouth with cotton wool to help a loose tooth set back in place. Then, head thumping, he sat in the bathroom scrolling through the news feed, desperate for some sign that all of this was worth it.

In the trash section of the news aggregator app, where plausibly deniable articles related to Jess sometimes popped up, he found a story about proposed changes to dog walking laws in Westchester County. He found no relevance in it until he clicked on the video. A vox pop of people across the county gave their opinions, and when the map showed New Rochelle, John braced himself and turned the volume down. It wasn't Jess speaking, but over the shoulder of the tiny elderly lady holding a toy poodle, John saw her standing, head tilted, watching the interview with interest. She turned to talk to someone off screen, who obviously answered, because Jess laughed, pushed a hand through her hair and glanced back at the camera. John ran the footage over and over until his eyelids were drooping, then he emptied the trash on the app and climbed into bed with Kara. 

Assignments kept him moving all over the globe, frustratingly missing the US, or landing him on the west coast, depressingly too distant to check in with Jess. John got a message from her once, no explanation or mention of the night at the Pierre Hotel. 

"It's me," she had said, into the message bank of one of his numbers. "I shouldn't call, I know. I just…" There was a long pause, and John strained his ears, turned the volume up high but all he could hear was the steady drum of rain on a car window. He hoped she wasn't driving, then he realised how ridiculous that worry was, when the man she had married had a casual investment in killing her. 

"I don't know if you still use this number but if you do, will you call me? Even if I don't get to pick it up, would you leave me a message, some time?" Jess said, finally. "To the phone you gave me, I still have that. I would… I'd really like to be able to hear your voice."

John listened to the message twice, then deleted it. It took him a few days to get some privacy, but when Kara had to take a side trip out of Hanoi to visit a dead drop, he bought a fresh burner phone, checked into a hotel across the city, and dialled in Jess' number. She didn't answer; it was the middle of the night on the east coast anyway, so he waited for the call to go to message. 

"Hey," he said. "I miss you. I wish I could get back to your part of the world, but things just haven't lined up right for me." He hadn't really planned this message out, and now he didn't know how to phrase what he wanted to say. "It's been busy, I guess. I don't really notice the time going past because the time zones mess me up. I have to stop and think to remember what season it would be with you. I can't say where I am, but I know you'll still be dealing with snow. I don't know. I half wish I was there doing stupid stuff that people do. Shovel snow, I guess. Clear out the gutters on the house. Go find a tree and chop it down – do they do that there? Probably you have to buy them." He pulled the curtains aside and stared down on the road below: people with wide straw hats, people on bikes, people pedalling tourists in brightly decorated _xích lô_. No sign of anyone watching him. 

"I remember this one Christmas when I was four or five... No, it was just after I started school, so I guess I was five. They were having a bad year, moneywise. Sophie told me there wasn't going to be much of a Christmas and we had to be brave so we didn't make Mom and Dad sad. And then out of nowhere, there was these two bikes on Christmas morning. They put ribbon on them and everything, and they pretended to be so surprised. I think they refurbished them, but I didn't care. There were these things you put on the spokes – did you have them?" He leaned his forehead against the wall, felt the rush of air as Sophie pushed him down the biggest hill he could find, as he rode that bike straight into a snowbank. Damn it. 

"I have to go. Be safe, Jessie. I... I'll talk to you soon." 

The humid air hit him like a wall, and he plunged through it all the way back to his meet-up with Kara.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold and John have lunch. John and Jess try to reconnect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added 'bad bdsm etiquette' to the tags, because Jess and John are flailing a bit in this chapter. 
> 
> Heads up that I'm taking a week's hiatus next week, due to RL stuff. Everything will hopefully be back to normal for posting on the 24th.

He managed to get stateside in late spring, with nothing worse than a broken toe. Kara he had left behind in Colombia, glued to the side of a cartel _regionale_ in what had eventuated as a longer-term assignment. They'd staged John's death at her hand to establish her cover, and once he'd swum free from the concrete block to which he'd been cuffed (hence the broken toe), he was ordered back to the States and told to keep his head down. A few months ago, to make Jess laugh, he would have told her that part then busily kept his head down between her legs. Now he didn't know where he and Jess stood. Did she still want to see him? Was seeing her putting her at further risk? Or giving her respite from what was happening at home? He wrote and deleted several messages, but eventually sent their usual coded text. Simple and to the point. She could refuse if she wanted. 

_> Staff meeting today?_

John found a hotel with a sturdy bed and, while he waited for an answer from Jess, decided to spend the morning spying on Universal Heritage Insurance. The company occupied half a floor in the Schroder Building, one of a hundred faceless companies staffed by well-dressed but unremarkable corporate clones. John took an elevator ride up to Universal's floor, into a lobby furnished with the right kind of bland but luxe furniture and vases of large and unimaginative floral arrangements. One of the receptionists, in the middle of a phone conversation, caught his eye and nodded acknowledgment of his arrival, and he in turn gave the standard brief smile and nod that indicated he was willing to wait.

Meanwhile, John browsed the photos on the wall: standard historical shots of the Board of Directors, all the way back to 1992. Harold was in every one, always at the back, always dressed a little more conservatively than he had been on the night they'd met: a less flamboyant check, a more subdued tie, no pocket square or silk lined waistcoat. 

John smiled. To look at him, he would not have guessed that Harold would be able to pull off camouflage to that extent. For some reason, the calculated nature of the disguise pleased him.

Someone approached him and he spun to see the receptionist, out from behind his desk. The man's hands were folded politely in front of him, and he had an apologetic expression. "Excuse me, Mr Rooney?" he said, and John raised his eyebrows in answer, despite this not being an alias of his. 

"I'm very sorry; Mr Wren is unfortunately late for your meeting; he's been unavoidably delayed with other business." 

John let an easy smile crease his face. "That's no problem. Tell him I'll be in touch." He turned for the elevator but the receptionist called him back. 

"Mr Wren asked if you would be free for lunch? He has a table at the Four Seasons for midday." 

It was a good choice for a covert meeting: crowded enough to slip in anonymously, full of money-rattling narcissists who don't know anyone else exists in the world, and acoustically very difficult to bug. John put on a corporate smile.

"That would be great. Please tell him I'll meet him there." 

_> Did you get my message? Hope things are okay. _

The Four Seasons was just starting to fill with groups of power brokers gathering for statement lunches. The maître d caught his eye, and he said, "I'm meeting Mr Harold Wren." While she checked her list, John scanned the room, saw Harold tucked by the wall in the Pool Room, and gestured to the maître d. 

He was swiftly escorted across the crowded floor and seated at Harold's table. 

"Mr Rooney," Harold said, pushing a folder towards him on the table. "I'm sorry I missed you at Universal. Perhaps you'd like to make an appointment next time you want to visit." His cane was propped against the wall, dark burled walnut with a black handle. 

"I don't always get a lot of notice before I'm here, and I'd hate to disappoint." John took the folder and flicked through it: it was an identity package for the aforementioned Mr John Rooney, and a very neat one, too: passport, driver's licence, various credit cards, gym memberships and loyalty cards to the kind of places that a manscaping financier would prefer, and a set of car keys with a BMW tag. He put it down again and looked at Harold, eyebrows raised. 

Harold took a sip of water. "I thought it would be useful for you to have a clean identity outside of the agency." 

"Who says I don't?" A waiter slid plates in front of them, tiny bites of salmon with something bright green drizzled across. Another appeared beside John to pour wine, yet another hovered should they need anything extra. 

"Indeed," Harold said. He dismissed the waiters with a brief gesture. "Are you planning to see Jessica while you're in the city?" 

John ate with stoic steadiness, though he felt a coldness low in his belly suddenly. "Is she okay?" 

"Yes, when I checked this morning," said Harold. He picked up his fork, turned the salmon pieces over in the sauce. "I know when she's clocked in at work. Her shift finishes at three, so I wouldn't be too worried yet if she hasn't answered any of your messages." He ate in small bites, gazing thoughtfully off into the distance, as if John ought not be troubled by the fact that Harold knew the minutia of Jess's life.

It was frustrating, needing this man's help, when he was so intrusive about it. At the same time, it was difficult to justify being insulted at Harold knowing so much about John, when the same electronic nosiness was keeping Jessica safe. The fact that Harold was polite and otherwise respectful made it worse. John would rather hate him, but the care he had taken to keep Jess safe made that impossible. It would have been easier if Harold were trying to recruit him. At least there'd be motive. 

"She's met with Nathan a couple of times," Harold went on. "They're getting along well, actually." The way he said it didn't sound as if Harold was pleased with the fact. 

John dredged the last piece of salmon through the green sauce. "How does that work, exactly? Does everyone you help end up on Nathan's Angler profile?" 

"No, that's just Nathan." Harold's expression was wry. "I don't think anyone could pin him down to traditional monogamy," he said. Waiters appeared to clear the plates, and Harold picked up his wine glass while they worked. 

John sipped his own wine. Then – and he didn't know why – he said, "And you?" 

"Me," Harold said, drawing the word out, thoughtful again. His eyes flicked to the cane. "I am coming to the realisation that no matter how hard I try to convince myself, my life will always be very far from traditional." 

John spent the entire entrée course trying to untangle that sentence. By the time that dessert came: he had reached the conclusion that Harold never gave away truths about himself without complicating them in ways that made truth worse than falsehood. They hadn't talked about much, really: weather, the impending summer, storms in the Gulf. A place that Harold had stayed once in Bavaria with a stuffed bear in his room, and a dish John had eaten in Krasnoyarsk that was made with jellied eels. 

"Two things that shouldn't be together," John said, as dessert was laid down on the table: fruit sorbet and dainty curls of chocolate. At Harold's raised eyebrows, he said, "Jelly and eels. I'm not a fussy eater and I'm not squeamish, but that's just not okay. For me." Harold was listening carefully, and John was embarrassed to have expressed anything remotely personal, even though this anecdote couldn't hurt him, not unless Harold chose to lock him up with only a pot of jellied eels to sustain him. 

Harold's phone chirruped softly while they lingered over coffee, and he picked it up. "Jessica has signed out of work now," he said. 

John was surprised that it was three in the afternoon already; had he just spent three hours with a man he knew so little about? Then the phone in his jacket pocket buzzed, and buzzed again. Two messages, two answers. 

Harold put his cup down carefully in the saucer. "I'd best be heading back to the office," he said. "It's not all three hour lunches in the insurance business, you know." He pushed himself upright with a hiss. "Perhaps three hours was a little optimistic." 

John stood, passed him the cane and Harold, after a moment, took it. John walked ahead, squaring his shoulders, forcing slightly tipsy bankers out of their path by being broader and more intimidating than them, and so they made it through the crowded dining room to the street. 

A sleek, dark town car pulled up kerbside, and Harold turned to John. "That's for me," he said, and put out his hand. 

John took it, feeling odd, knowing that he was planning to see Jessica, not knowing how specific Harold's surveillance was on her. "Thank you for lunch," he said. I haven't had a lot of opportunity just to sit and enjoy a meal, he wanted to say, but instead he gave Harold a brief nod and walked away.

_> Not sure if I'll bother with this one_, the first message read. Then, _Can you remind me what's happening in it? Is it rtmi?_

John had to google 'rtmi' to know how to answer that one. He didn't spend a lot of time in chatrooms. 

_> The last one went pretty badly. Probably better to get back to basics._ He hit send, and thought about Jessica sitting in her car, probably in the hospital parking garage, reading his messages. It was very tempting to just hail a cab and head up there. That was definitely not a good idea. He shoved his hands in his pockets just in case he did it. He knew it was wrong to apologise, he knew not to start talking about how he felt. He hoped that this was a way for them to be close again. 

_> I'm still not sure if it's worth the trip,_ Jessica said. _How do I know that we're not going to be covering the same material?_

This was one of those nooks in Midtown that hipsters would describe eclectic but pearl-clutching grandmothers would call seedy: a store selling vintage vinyl, a marijuana dispensary, a body-piercing studio. Right now, John was passing a place described as an Artisan Leather Boutique. He stopped at the window and took a photo of some sturdy leather manacles on a stand. There was no way he was getting out of those without breaking a bone, he thought. As long as they were tight enough. And, even if it wasn't something she was interested in, it would give her a laugh.

In a few seconds, he had a reply: 

_> You'd better bring them._

John read it, grinned despite all the things surrounding the two of them, and went into the store holding John Rooney's credit card. This could be Harold's gift to the two of them. 

He had a few hours before Jess would make it to the hotel, so he unpacked the gear, laid it out on the counter for Jess to see, and went to take a shower. While he washed, he idly stroked himself, thinking about Jess' hands, about how it felt to be helpless for her. He wouldn't think about her husband or the looming danger he posed, he wouldn't dwell on the reasons Jess had for going back to him. He was here for Jess, and that was enough. 

Then, because he'd been seventy hours without solid sleep and because his belly was full of good food and wine, he sprawled naked on the bed and fell dreamlessly asleep. He woke to the sound of his phone buzzing. 

_> Which room?_

He texted her the number, and rubbed his eyes, eying the time on his phone. He'd sacked out for two hours. The leather manacles gleamed on the counter when he put the lights on, and then he heard the elevator ding. His stomach gave a pleasant flip-flop and he opened the door a crack, his gun in reach just in case. 

Jess stopped in front of his room. She wore a sundress far too cold for the season and her blue nurse's cardigan, with her name badge and watch still pinned on. She watched him in silence, her mouth tight, but she was there and John could barely stop himself reaching out, scooping her up. 

She must have seen something of that in his expression, because she looked him up and down sceptically. "Do you have your hand on your gun right now?" 

John glanced down at his naked front and back at her with an innocent expression, and Jess laughed. She pushed at the door and he stepped back, let her in. When she crossed the threshold and saw his gun sitting in the holster, well within reach, she shook her head. 

"What were you going to do? Run down the corridor stark naked and waving a gun?" 

John leaned against the wall. "It's not professional to wave a gun. You have to hold it menacingly. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time." 

It was all right, it was all right, she was here. Things weren't perfect, but Jess was here and the magic between them was still flickering, and she was beautiful enough to drive all worry out of his head. Except, he reminded himself, except to be very, very gentle. Always. He opened his arms for her, an invitation to come closer and she stepped up to him. She touched his bare chest, uncertain, and he realised she was as anxious about this meeting as he was. 

John took her hand in his and turned it over, where a thin white line still traced along her palm. He put his mouth to it and kissed it, and she sighed, curled her fingers against his cheek. "I'm sorry," he said. "I promise to be more careful. I promise." 

"I know," said Jess. Her hand moved into his hair, stroking the temple where she'd pushed the glass. "I'm sorry, too." 

The manacles were good quality, John thought as he tested them out. "Tighter," he said. "I can pop my left thumb out of joint and slide out of that." 

Behind him, Jess pulled them up a couple of notches, so that John felt them close around his wrists. She kissed him between his shoulder blades while he strained in the cuffs, testing the strength of them, trying to slide free and failing. "I like them," she said. "They suit you. You look good like this." She pulled down on his hands, made him straighten out his fingers and checked them for colour and circulation. 

John stood, patient and safe while she examined him all over, turning a little to watch her trail fingers over his skin. She took a very long time, touching each scar and mark, noting the new ones and making herself familiar with the old. When she had made her way all around him once, he reached out to kiss her and she stopped him, her eyes sad. 

"Look at you," she said, stroking his cheek again. "You're beautiful. You're here, and you're alive, and you're beautiful." Then she kissed him, and he couldn't do anything to stop her, which was more important at the moment than the fact that he would let her do anything. She didn't have to tie him up for that. 

Jess didn't want to push him on his back. "What if it hurts your wrists?" she said, so he sat and let himself drop gently onto the bed, caught his own hands at the small of his back. She sighed, at his stubbornness, and the way his bound wrists made him arch up. Then she knelt on the bed and slipped the straps off her sundress.

"Wait," said John, hoarse from being silent for so long. He realised he didn't want to see her, not because she wasn't beautiful, but because he knew he'd be examining every imperfection on her skin: was it a bruise? Had Peter done that? "Do you have a scarf or something? For a blindfold?" 

Jess propped on the bed, confused and a bit startled. "Why?" she said. 

John tried to find a way to explain. "I don't want to worry about you," he said. "It's not that I don't want to see you. I want to only see you. Does that make sense?" 

"Yeah," said Jess. She stood up and faced him. "But I'm not going to do it. I want you to watch, John. You don't get to look away from me. Not once. I don't get to look away from you, ever. I see all your battle scars. You can't deny mine."

John felt a sound escape from him, half a sob, half a denial, and all the while, Jessica watched him mercilessly while she let the sundress pool around her ankles. 

"Don't close your eyes, John," she said, and he opened them immediately, hadn't even realised he had closed them. She climbed on the bed, straddled his body, put her hands on his chest and then lifted them, surprised. "Are you trembling?" she said, amazement in her voice. 

"Yes," said John. He felt no shame in it; he knew he wasn't a coward. "I want to kill him, Jess. I'm afraid if I see…" He couldn't do it. He couldn't say it. He closed his eyes then remembered what she'd said about watching her and he opened them again. She waited, sitting astride him, watching him with curiosity and fascination. He tried again for her, tried to put it into words. "I am afraid that if I kill him, I'll lose you," he said, finally. "And if I see that he's hurt you, I'll kill him. I won't be able to stop." He wasn't even hard anymore, just terrified that he would hurt her more than Peter ever had. And that it would still be the right thing to do. 

Jess lay down beside him, and he rolled on his side so they were face to face. She reached out, brushed the corners of his eyes where they'd gotten wet, marvelled at the tears on her fingertips, then kissed him. Every way she touched him was gentle; it was unfair and wrong. John wanted her to be harsh and rough and demanding, but this was worse, this was a tiny knife sliding softly into his heart. 

"Please," he said to her, and he didn't know what he was asking for. "Please, Jess." 

"You walked away from me," she said. "In the airport, you walked away from me." She kissed him again, on his throat, and he tipped his head back obediently. "This is what it felt like when you turned your back on me that day."

John flinched, as if she'd hit him, and for a moment his body told him that he had been struck, that he needed to defend himself against her. He thrashed on the bed and she leapt back from him with a shriek. 

"I'm sorry!" John said, frantically trying to still himself. "I'm sorry, Jess, please." 

Jess grabbed her dress and stepped into it, pulling it up. "I'm leaving, John," she said. He could hear she was crying, and he tried to reach for her reflexively, forgetting he was still cuffed. "I'm going to drive myself home and get on with my life. Don't call me again."

"Jess, please, stay!" John got himself upright, but she opened the door without looking back. Even so, John made it there before she could leave. When he brushed her body with his, the contact made him jump as if she had shocked him.

"I'm sorry," he said, again, helpless. Even if his arms were free, he could never have grabbed at her or tried to hold her still. That was the point. She had disarmed him completely and deliberately. 

The door locked as it closed behind her. He sat on the bed, hands still cuffed behind his back, gut churning and tears prickling at his eyes again, this time from shame. 

Then he had to decide which was more humiliating: dislocating his shoulder so he could get the cuffs off, or phoning Harold with his toes. 

He called Universal Heritage, gave his name as John Rooney, and somehow made his voice calm enough to badger the receptionist into connecting him with Mr Wren. 

"Mr Reese." Harold seemed unsurprised to receive a call from John. "Is everything all right? Ah, I see you're quite close by." 

"I..." John couldn't make words come out. "I.." Nope. No words. He shut his eyes – it was a relief, after keeping them open for Jess, to be sitting in the dark. 

"Are you hurt?" Harold was walking; John could hear the rhythm of it, in his voice, in the rocking sound of his stride and the tap of his cane. "John, can you tell me, do you need an ambulance?" 

"No." John was certain of that, at least. "I'm not hurt." 

"I will be there in ten minutes," Harold said, his voice calm as always, despite John's suspicion that his own was more than a little hysterical. 

Ten minutes were easily counted down. Six hundred seconds. John started, keying his breathing into the count, so that by the time that Harold knocked, he felt calmer, if a little heady.

"I'm here, Mr Reese," Harold said from outside. After a few moments, he said, "Is it all right to come in?" 

"Yes," John said, air rushing out of him with a gasp, glad that the situation was about to change, despite what Harold would think of him. As soon as he was free, he was driving to New Rochelle and putting a bullet in Peter Arndt's brain. If Jess was going to hate him anyway, she may as well hate him in safety. 

The door opened and John braced himself for… what? Harold's pity? Scorn? Whatever a person felt when they opened a door and saw someone caught by their own stupidity. 

Harold merely paused a moment, then walked into the room and closed the door behind him. 

"Come here," Harold said, and John rose off the bed, turned so he could see the stupid leather cuffs. 

"I could get out of them without help." It seemed important suddenly that Harold knew he wasn't the only option John had. 

"I'm sure you could," Harold said as he unbuckled the cuffs, eased them away from John's wrist. He made a tchh, presumably at the lines cut into John's skin by the tightness after all this time. "Nonetheless, I'm glad that you called; I doubt the agency would give you time to heal a dislocation properly." He had the cane tucked under his arm as he worked; John could see it in the mirror. 

John rolled his shoulders, swinging each arm in turn to get the circulation moving. He was coming back to himself, like a computer rebooting. He'd dress, check his weapon, drive to New Rochelle. Get Peter out of the house – he had gambling debts, it would be easy enough, and then Jess wouldn't have to see. 

"Are you all right, Mr Reese?" Harold touched his arm, and John wheeled on him, gun suddenly drawn. John hadn't even realised he had grabbed his weapon, didn't remember making the decision, and that was troubling enough to make him lower it, hold it loosely in one hand. If he didn't have control over who he aimed at, if that was happening unconsciously, he had no right to hold a gun at all. He put it down on the bed, then stared at it. 

Harold had frozen stock still when the gun swung up to face him, but now he walked slowly and carefully past John to the bathroom, and fetched a robe. 

"Here," he said, and draped it over John's shoulders. 

John shrugged into it and realised that he had been naked for so long that he had forgotten. He picked up a loose sock, searched for its pair, gathered some clothes together.

"Has she left the island yet?" he asked, as he unlaced his shoes properly; he'd just kicked them off when he arrived. 

Harold took John's jacket from where it had landed on the counter, and shook it out then hung it over the chair. "She's with Nathan right now. He'll most likely drive her home." At John's dubious expression, he waved a hand. "Or his driver will, though on the whole Nathan is cutting back on the booze. I think the work is good for him." He sat, perched on the arm of the chair, leaning into the cane. "What do you intend to do now, Mr Reese?" 

John scruffed his hair. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't go and kill Peter tonight." 

"Apart from the fact that murder is wrong?" 

John scoffed at that. "I thought you knew what I did for a living." 

Harold sighed and gazed for a moment at his shoes. Expensive, John noted. Bespoke. Eventually he reached inside his jacket for a phone, and switched it on. "Here," he said, holding it out. "If you really believe this is the best course of action, then call Jessica, and tell what you intend." 

John took it, read Jessica's name in the contacts. "I won't give her a chance to tip him off," he said, but he couldn't stop staring at the screen. He realised he had never really seen Jess' name written with 'Arndt' appended to it. 

"Then, afterwards," said Harold. "If it's the right thing to do, you'll have no problems explaining that to her. I'm not an expert in this kind of thing, but it seems to me that given the nature of your relationship with Jessica, it would be the honourable thing to do. Rather than, say, having him just vanish, leaving her wondering forever." 

John stared at Harold's phone, imagining that conversation. Imagining the same conversation happening everywhere he had vanished a person, left a family waiting and worrying. 

"The fact that you're hesitating tells me you're not quite as willing to accept the consequences of causing pain to someone you love. To someone who loves the man you want to kill." Harold's voice was incredibly, distressingly calm, given the way he was laying John open with words. "She does love him, after all. If you kill him, she will most certainly grieve, and it will affect the choices she makes for the rest of her life." 

"Isn't that better than him beating her to death?" Saying it out loud was clarifying. John was the one who was called on to do things other people quailed at. He could do this, bear Jessica's anger, and take solace in the fact that she was alive to do it. He could do this, and accept that she would hate him. He could do this thing, even though it would cause her pain. 

"There is also the fact that killing Mr Arndt will cause harm to you," Harold said. 

"I don't think so," John said. "He's a civilian." It came out more harshly than he meant it to, but the thought of physically destroying Peter was extremely satisfying, the way downing a bottle of whiskey was satisfying, even when he knew he'd regret it. Even if it meant Jessica would know what he really was capable of. 

"I'm not talking about physical harm." Harold was watching John intently, as if looking for something in his expression. John was glad he didn't know Harold wanted from him, because he'd give it in a moment, just to make him stop gazing inside John like this. 

Eventually Harold sighed, leaned the cane against the wall, and pushed open the bathroom door. "I think you'll feel better if you washed and dressed," he said, and picked up John's shirt, shaking it into shape fussily. 

Doing anything at all was better than standing still, so John stepped into the bathroom. He left the handgun on a stack of towels while he showered. He brushed his teeth. He shaved. He thought about how Jess would have to plan a funeral and a wake, have to manage the paperwork that comes with a sudden death. The insurance investigation, possibly a criminal investigation too. By the time he emerged, wrapped in a towel, his skin stinging from the hot water, he knew he wasn't going to kill Peter today. 

While John had been showering, Harold had arranged for a new shirt and underwear, and for housekeeping to rush his suit through laundering. John had been dreading the moment when he slid his arms into that jacket; it was the one he'd crossed the border in. It didn't help that John remembered exactly where he'd sponged bloodstains out in a filthy gas station bathroom just inside the border. 

The clean, crisp new shirt was cool against his skin, and gave him a kind of respite from uncomfortable thoughts, the way a cancelled appointment delays an unpleasant meeting. While they waited for housekeeping, John packed his overnight bag, checked his weapon, while Harold fussed with his phone. John wasn't sure what to do with the manacles – he didn't want them, but it would be imprudent to leave them here – so he pushed them back into their box, and with judicious shoving, managed to cram it into his case.

By the time the suit arrived, crisply clean and pressed, Harold reported that Jessica had left for New Rochelle with Nathan's driver. John nodded as he slid his gun into the holster and shrugged into the jacket. 

"I can't see that you have a current assignment," Harold said, without looking up from the phone. "Do you have any plans?" 

That made John laugh weakly. What kind of plans could he make? "I'm sure they'll be in touch as soon as they realise I'm at my leisure," he said. "Taxpayer's money, you know." 

Harold nodded, still working on his phone. "You might want somewhere else to stay," he said, and hit send with his thumb. 

John's phone buzzed in his jacket and he took it out. Harold had sent an address, nothing memorable, an apartment on the seventh floor of a building ten blocks distant from here. 

"It's secure," Harold said, at John's questioning eyebrow. "The doorman will admit you, if you use the name Rooney." 

"Why?" John was baffled as to why this address was any different to an anonymous hotel. 

What Harold said next was absurdity. "Because you need a place where you feel safe." He picked up his cane and with a visible wince turned for the door. John stood still, watching him go. Then he heard the ding of the elevator. His long strides caught up with Harold before the man had stepped inside. 

He had meant it to be an awkward elevator ride, had meant to intimidate Harold, filling the elevator up with posture and presence the way he would threaten a target. Somehow, though, it was oddly companionable. Harold leaned against the wall and gazed past John's shoulders until the elevator opened on the lobby. 

John could see a long black town car idling in front of the revolving doors, surprised at how the gloom of evening had gathered. The doorman, on seeing them approach, hurried to open the car door, but as they were stepping towards the exit, a phone rang, the mechanical tone harsh in the quiet murmur of the lobby. Harold's careful footsteps halted an inch away from the sweeping curve of the spinning glass but he did not look around. 

"This is not an appropriate time," he said, softly, to whom, John had no idea. There was nobody near. Harold was staring downwards, apparently talking to the carpet in front of him. John scanned the lobby, and saw that he was not the only one searching for the ringing phone. When he tracked the sound, it was coming from behind a collection of potted plants arranged in the corner by the glass wall. Dust on the pots suggested that they weren't moved often, and when he pushed the foliage aside, he saw that they provided discreet cover for an old public phone, with a blue faded plastic receiver. 

He glanced back at Harold who watched him with a pained expression. The phone rang on, insistent, and a concierge detached himself from his desk to hurry over to the corner. John made a decision, stepped behind the plants, and picked up the receiver. 

"Acceleration, Foxtrot, Bravo. County, Lima, Charlie. Escapist, Juliet, Papa." It was a recording, or at least, an assembled recording made from different voices, cut and pasted together like a ransom note. John listened to two complete cycles in the time it took Harold to limp over to the potted plants. John put his hand over the mouthpiece and examined Harold's expression through the branches of the potted tree: his face was closed, as distant and locked down as he had seen it, despite the fact that Harold had just helped a naked John escape from leather manacles.

"Is it a threat?" John asked. He still covered the mouthpiece, but he could hear the patched-together words repeating. 

Harold closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again. "Not directly, no. It does mean that someone is in danger." He stared towards the corner of the lobby, his expression sour. "It must be something dire, for the call to be redirected outside normal parameters." 

"This is it?" John said. His exhaustion and despair were ebbing with this morsel of intel dangling in front of him. He answered his own question, now that he had more pieces of the puzzle. "This software, you left yourself access, so it can give you the names of people in danger." He stepped past Harold, towards the revolving door. 

"Not the names," Harold said, following in his wake. "And never the specific intelligence. As I said, we never know what the danger is, or what data has triggered the… software's response." He stopped just in front of the car, hesitating. The driver leapt out, hurried to open the passenger side.

John stepped up close behind him, mouth close to Harold's ear, voice low and menacing. "You can't stop now, Harold. I need to know how you operate, if you want me to trust you to keep Jessica safe. And you know I can tail you, you know I'm not going to let this go." 

Harold sighed. "Yes, there's no need for dramatic effect, Mr Reese. I have no illusions about your skills or those of your partner. I would rather keep the chances of Ms Stanton coming across your activities as low as possible. " He slipped into the back seat and nodded for John to join him. 

When the driver had dropped them on a corner, John wasn't sure what to expect. Then Harold pulled open a door off the street, and John caught it before it closed, ducked in behind him. It was an abandoned library, a book-scattered atrium, with high-ceilings softly lit by emergency light only. Harold walked a familiar path between the piles of books to a wide staircase.

"I hope you're bringing coffee!" a voice called down from the upper level. Harold froze, one foot poised above a step, and John sensed from the twitch in his shoulders that he wanted to turn around and walk away. Watching Harold's world reveal itself layer by layer was proving an excellent distraction from the mess he'd made with Jessica. He put his toes on the step below Harold's and stood close, looming over Harold's shoulder, waiting for whatever would happen next. 

Harold spoke, his voice tight and unhappy. "Before you meet Grace, I would appreciate you keeping the more unsavoury details of your work to yourself."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Grace, and sees the work being done in the Library. Meanwhile, a lonely Nathan is living it up in the French Alps.

Grace was the redheaded woman John had seen in Nathan's group from time to time, and the one who had been with him the night John tailed them from the restaurant a few months ago. She was wearing jeans today, though, with her hair loosely tied back. As she walked down the stairs, she smiled, delighted to see a new face. 

Beside John, Harold's face was white, his mouth small and pinched. John filed it away: Harold cares for Grace, Harold is vulnerable around Grace.

"Hello!" she said. "You must be a friend of Harold's, if he brought you here." 

John was going to give his easy, charming, works-on-every-mark smile, but Grace unexpectedly gathered him into a hug. The smile that eventuated when she let go felt oddly natural and uncalculated. 

"Sorry," Grace said, picking up on his surprise. "I was just excited to see someone new – I don't know how much Harold has told you but we are swamped. We need all the help we can get." She frowned at Harold's expression. "Is something wrong?" 

"This is John," Harold said, gesturing to his left. "Bringing him here has happened a little prematurely." John's delight at Harold's discomfort only made his smile wider. It wasn't that he longed to see Harold squirm – far from it, he was grateful to Harold for all that he had done – but there was a significant imbalance between what Harold knew about John, and vice versa. 

Grace shook her head sadly. "Spontaneity really is theoretical for you, isn't it?" 

Beside him, Harold's mouth twitched, and John grinned even wider. Harold liked to be teased. He never would have guessed. 

"I know he doesn't like to be rushed," John offered into the conversation. "It's just that it was suddenly the right time to bring me in." 

Grace laughed. "Oh, there's a lot of that here. It comes with having being at the whim of an all-seeing, all-plotting machine. It probably got tired of Harold hesitating, and pushed him into it." 

"That is exactly what happened," Harold said, his voice short, and walked up the stairs before John could ask what the hell Grace was talking about. Grace held out her hand and, with an odd feeling of anticipation, John took it and walked up beside her. 

"It doesn't very often send out numbers to two people," Grace said, as they walked. "I wonder if we got the same person?" The staircase led to upper levels that were tidier but still had the scattered sense that many people used the same space. 

"Acceleration, Foxtrot, Bravo," John recited for her. "County, Lima, Charlie. Escapist, Juliet, Papa." He wanted to ask her what the code meant, but Harold's pointed silence from wherever he had vanished made him hesitate. 

Grace's smile was rueful. "Yeah, Harold can memorise like that, but I've usually forgotten the first three by the time it gets to the end. That's cool. I have my solutions." She pulled out a tiny notebook with a pencil tucked in the spiral binding, flipped to the back page, and showed him the rest of the message, in neat round lettering. Above the message, she'd drawn an air balloon, with a longhaired woman in the basket, strewing rose petals down like confetti. 

John pointed at the figure in the basket, and Grace drew a little love heart escaping from her mouth, sailing away like a cloud. "That's Escapist Juliet," she said. "I like to jot down my first thoughts when I get a number, and see how closely it all plays out." 

"Does it?" John asked. He was starting to have a feeling of unreality, like he'd been sucked into a kid's storybook. Maybe he was more exhausted than he realised. 

"Sometimes," said Grace. "As Harold says, hindsight is a wonderful thing. Come on." She towed him along to where Harold sat at a round wooden table, behind a fan of monitors. 

Beside John, a printer hissed quietly, ejecting a photo. John lifted it by the corner. 

"Dale Holloway," Harold said, and pointed towards a cracked glass board. "If you wouldn't mind, Mr Reese." 

John taped the picture up, where others had clearly been before. "Who is he?" 

"That's a kind face," Grace said. She traced the corners of the man's eyes, where crow's feet folded the skin. "You don't get these unless you smile a lot." 

"It doesn't mean a lot," said John. He pointed to his own face. "I've got plenty, and I wouldn't say I was the smiling type." 

Grace made a scoffing sound. "I know how faces work, John. You're a smiler." 

"Mr Holloway is employed by Fiduciary Shareholding," Harold said, into their conversation. "A 401k provider used by educators. It seems…" his fingers tapped busily. "Extremely stable. Mr Holloway's records are exemplary and he was recently promoted, however a week ago there was an anonymous accusation of misdirecting client funds. His employment is currently suspended. He's meeting with his lawyer and the legal department of the firm today." 

"Oh, Dale," said Grace, disappointed. "Did you steal peoples' pensions? I had high hopes for you." 

John felt the prickle of observation and turned to see Harold watching him from between two monitors. He raised his eyebrows, and stepped towards the table so that nothing could interfere with Harold's assessment.

"What happens now?" he asked, eventually. "I assume this is like what I saw with Mrs Martínez?" 

"Oh, did you help with that one? Elsa's doing great," said Grace. "She's got another grandchild on the way." 

Harold stood up and walked to the glass board. "According to predictive software, Mr Holloway is either the potential victim of a violent crime, or he's about to be the perpetrator of one." 

"This is where it gets sneaky," said Grace. "I get kinda creeped out by the privacy invasion, and yeah, I know that's hypocritical, but I do. So I go and make tea, and Harold crawls through poor Dale's secrets, then I come back, and we try to figure out what's happening." She smiled, wide and falsely cheery. "So you want tea?" 

"Do you have coffee?" asked John, again, unsure what to make of this team of amateur vigilantes with variable moral standards, but nonetheless charmed by their integrity. 

"I certainly do!" Grace said with all the bright sparkle of a diner waitress at the start of her shift. Then she was gone, to a place John hadn't seen yet, where he heard running water and the sound of the microwave. 

Beside him, Harold's expression was a melange of love, frustration and worry. "I never intended Grace to be involved in this business," he said. "But – and it's taken us some time to reach this point – it's not my decision to make." The corners of his mouth curled upwards, just a tiny bit, and he held out an earpiece. "Since you're here, though, perhaps you'd like to assist?"

John turned it over, examining it: the same sleek model Nathan had used while trying to help Mrs Martínez. Accepting this gave him some way to pay Harold back for protecting Jessica, but it had to come with certain expectations, civilian expectations, the kind that didn't play well with the nature of John's actual work. Harold, Grace and Nathan had chosen to undertake this strange work. That choice had never been afforded to John 

Harold sat down again, tapped a few keys and then turned a monitor in John's direction. On it was closed circuit footage of a bar. Jessica sat in a booth with a black woman with close-cropped hair, heads together and empty glasses arrayed in front of them. 

"Her friend Shelley," Harold said. "This is real time. They've been here for nearly an hour." 

John reached out to touch Jess's hair, an automatic gesture he didn't realise he had done until he felt the warm glass under a fingertip. Harold pressed another key, and John could hear Jess's voice. 

"…but I just don't have room to deal with his baggage right now. I'm juggling so much. I feel like if I drop a single thing, my life will fall to pieces. Thank God Peter's on the other side of the country right now, or he'd know something was up." 

Shelley rubbed Jess's back, and pushed the margarita jug in her direction. "Jess, you know what I'm going to tell you. I've said it a million times before." 

Jess put her hand over Shelley's, and squeezed. "Don't give up on me, okay?" 

That was enough eavesdropping for John. He gave Harold a swift nod and bolted from the library. 

He had just stepped into a cab when he heard Harold make an exclamation of surprise, then Grace's voice over the earpiece. "Oh, John, did Harold put you to work already? I'm sorry, he's terrible. I was going to give you a tour." 

"It's fine," said John. He gave the address for Dale Holloway's apartment to the driver. "I'm twitchy with nothing to do. But I'll take a raincheck on that tour." He definitely wanted to know more about their operation, not just because a better understanding would make it easier to know what intel could be safely passed on to Mark, but also, he realised, because this was something good, something worth protecting. 

The earpiece crackled as Harold presumably grappled with Grace for possession of the phone line, then Harold's voice was back in his ear, directing him to the correct floor of the apartment building. 

Later, he had plenty of time to chat with Grace while they were both in the field: he at Holloway's workplace, she at a department store to check on some suspicious purchases Harold had detected on Holloway's accounts. 

"I'm really glad Harold brought you over," Grace said, while the sales assistant went to check with his floor manager. "Nathan's hardly around anymore, so it's mostly just me and Harold, and between the two of us, we can barely keep up." 

John swiped an ID card that Harold had coded for him, and was effortlessly admitted to Fiduciary Shareholding. "How do you two handle things when it gets dangerous?" He pictured the two of them in the hallway of Mrs Martínez's building where he'd seen Nathan try to bribe those thugs. It wasn't a comfortable image. The alternative, letting Mrs Martínez lose her apartment or be killed, wasn't a great prospect either. 

"This is going to make me sound really hard," Grace said, apologetically, and John had to supress a cynical snort at the idea that sounding hard was a bad thing. "But I know we can't save everyone. If we can help, we do. If we can't, well, we tried our best. Harold isn't as sanguine about it. I think he takes it very personally, given that the Machine was his baby." 

John wanted to ask more about this Machine, how it worked, but Grace was back in conversation with the sales attendant and his manager. 

"Oh, I understand the confidentiality thing," Grace said to the floor manager. "And if we were newly weds, this would be a whole other thing. But let me tell you: when you've been together for a long time, you learn how to make things work. Me checking on what he bought is how we're going to make this work. It'll save you paperwork if I have to return whatever he bought for me." 

Grace was very deft with people, John decided, as he let himself in to Holloway's office. 

Later, he zip-tied Dale's officemate to a pipe in the parking garage underneath Fiduciary Shareholding, and disarmed the pressure cooker full of metal bolts she had carefully hidden in Dale's office. The woman had applied for the same promotion, and believed that she was the more deserving candidate, but blowing up the office building was an extreme response. 

When he was done, John tapped his earpiece. "Bev's ready for the police… do you have a codename in the field? I assume it's not Wren." John jogged up the concrete stairs to ground level. The whole mission had been oddly satisfying, considering the small scale of the thing. Nobody wants an explosion in the middle of New York, of course, but there were no greater consequences than the immediate loss of life. No threat to the security of the country, no patriotic reason to put bodies in the ground. 

"The police should be along shortly, Mr Reese, but I'd suggest you make yourself scarce," Harold said. "And if you'd like, you can call me Mr Finch." 

John flagged down a cab. "How's Jessica?" he asked into the quiet. "She made it home okay?" 

"Mr Arndt is in California at the moment, if that's what you're asking. And yes, her friend dropped her home before midnight." 

John watched the city go past, light thinning as the morning crept in. He'd prevented the deaths of perhaps twenty people, he thought. It was both a ridiculously small number and an immense one at the same time. He liked that people would go home alive and well tonight, unaware of how closely death had passed by. His hands felt strangely light and clean, his shoulders relaxed in a way that wasn't possible in his professional life.

"I really enjoyed helping you out today," he said to Harold. "Will you tell Grace goodbye for me?" 

"You don't want to come back to the Library and tell her yourself?" 

John considered it briefly, tempted by the idea of spending more time with these strange, idealistic people, but he'd been forty-eight hours without a check-in. He made his apologies to Harold, changed out his sim, and checked into his work voicemail. Mark had texted a set of directives, which John skipped in favour of a message from Kara. Her summaries were always more concise. 

"Operation went sour, so I'm back on the West Coast," she said. "Mark wants us in Iceland. I can meet you in LA, fly to Reykjavík together. If we get lucky with stopovers, we can spend a little quality time with some quality booze in a quality sauna."

John sighed, felt the real world settle back into place, and leaned forward to redirect the cab to the airport. 

At LAX, Kara was in unusually high spirits. John watched her, suspicious. She sprawled across two seats, resting her feet on her bag, and she gave him a lazy little wave. At the baggage check in, the security guard watching the x-ray raised his eyebrows and stared at John with a startled expression. Kara laughed, and hooked her arm through John's elbow.

"It's okay. John's not ashamed. It takes quite the man to handle what I dish out." 

John affected a distant smile until he could figure out what this conversation was about. While they waited in the first class lounge, he rummaged through her bag. 

"Careful, lover," she said. "You don't want to scare the children." 

Just as she spoke, John's fingers snagged on leather straps: a strap-on harness with bright silver buckles. Attached to the harness was a breathtakingly massive dildo, at least as wide as John's wrist and almost as long as his forearm. 

"Are you kidding me?" John said. "Is this real?" He'd let Kara fuck him before, but she'd previously kept things in biologically-probable perspective. 

Kara smirked and sipped her champagne. "Oh, it's real, big boy. And a few hours ago, it was real deep in the ass of this idiot who's been trying to impress me." John stared at her, still holding the immense dildo and she shrugged. "I was a little impressed," she admitted. "Impressed that he could walk out of my room on two legs." 

John shoved the thing back in her bag and zipped it up. He didn't want to know anything more, though he was grateful to the poor man whose sacrifice meant that John's journey north was with a considerably less fractious Kara.

Iceland was not difficult: extraction of a scientist, rendition of a handler following his own agenda, and a long, boring ride on a snowmobile. Kara was disturbingly amiable the whole time, and apart from warming her icy fingers on his belly while he steered the snowmobile, didn't make any move on him. 

Their hotel in Reykjavík had huge square windows with a view of a dark, cold sea. John cleaned his gear and watched Kara propped on her bed cradling a cup of coffee between her palms. 

"What is this guy doing for you?" he asked, into the silence. "You're a whole different person." 

Kara smiled, and blew the steam from the top of her cup. "Maybe this is the person I've always been, John." 

John made a face and stashed his weapon ready to store. "As long as you're happy," he said. 

Their meet-up with Mark was at a restaurant not yet open for lunch, and they slipped into the dining room, weaving between the tables piled with chairs. Mark's own table was perfectly set, though, and there were staff clattering in the kitchen. Mark threw an envelope at Kara and she caught it without looking. "Go ahead and open it," he said. "I found you a mission you'll really like. Consider it a gift for a job well done in Iceland." 

Kara ripped it open and scanned the details in the letter. "Oooh, Mark, this will be fun. Though John will make that face again. You know the one." She pulled the corner of her mouth down in the mockery of a sad smile. "I'm John, the melancholy assassin." 

John shrugged off the insult with an eyeroll, and thought instead of saving twenty people in an office building. 

A waiter brought Mark a bowl of soup, and he unfolded his napkin, spread it across his lap. "That's not a problem in this case," he said. "It's a solo mission." 

Kara's eyes narrowed; she hated to miss out on anything. Mark waved his hand, dismissive. "I have to brief John on this side job, the tech mogul." 

John felt his stomach drop, and a list of possibilities unspool. He hadn't admitted to himself that there would come a time when they ordered him to do something to Nathan that was now unacceptable. This might not be it, he told himself as he took a steadying breath, and sat down at the table. He knew Kara, behind him, was rolling her eyes, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of turning to see it.

"Okay," said Kara. "I'll be back in a couple of hours." She perused the photos again with an anticipatory smile. "Maybe a little longer, if we're all having fun." 

When she was gone, the waiter brought soup for John, though he hadn't asked for any. Mark tore his bread roll in half and spread it with butter, closing his eyes in pleasure as he bit into it.

"Scandinavian butter," he said with his mouth full. "It's probably killing me, but it's so good I just don't care. Tell me about Ingram." 

John gazed at his soup, thick and bloody red and his stomach churned. 

"Come on," said Mark, chewing. He dipped his spoon in the bowl. "Intel. Spill it. Give me something of value." 

"I've helped him with a couple of his little missions," John said, his voice carefully light. "There doesn't seem to be much to it. He finds someone in trouble, sorts out their problems by throwing money at them. Once I saw him buy a building to stop a landlord forcing out his rent-controlled tenants. This time it was a woman trying to kill a workmate." 

Mark nodded as he ate his soup in small delicate spoonfuls. "How does he choose his subjects? Where does he get his intel?"

"He has a lot of hooks into social media," John said. "I don't know much about the technical side of it, but he seems to be able to extract the names of people who have talked about being in trouble." He reminded himself to keep Harold and Grace out of the story, make the mechanism the most interesting thing. Keep Mark on the hook, without giving him so much intel that he felt able to make a decision about Nathan's fate. 

"What's the deal with this guy?" Mark reached onto the seat beside him and drew out a photograph, then slid it over the linen tablecloth. John gazed down onto Daniel Aquino's face. 

"Daniel Aquino," John said. "He's a nuclear engineer. He's part of Nathan's research team, and…" He chose his words carefully, trying not to give away anything that would put Nathan and Harold in danger. This was difficult, when he didn't have a complete picture of what Nathan and Harold's Machine actually did. "Nathan said something about helping with new app development." 

"You heard of the ISA? Bunch of cowboys, recruit from the services a lot?" Mark swabbed the remains of his soup with a piece of bread. "Who knows, John? It could have been you working for them." 

John tried to imagine the correct reaction Mark was expecting from this, and approximated an expression of neutral amusement. 

"The ISA tried to take Aquino out. This guy, too…" Mark flipped another photo onto the table, another member of Nathan's entourage, this time the older man with the sunken eyes. "Szilar, Laurence. Another engineer. Both times, the reason they couldn't take the hit was that Nathan Ingram immediately paraded them around at some spontaneous press conference announcing, I don't know, free kidney machines or kittens for babies. Journalists ten feet deep on the steps of City Hall, that kind of thing. Very calculated to make sure that the messy details would go straight to air before anyone could intervene." 

"Makes sense," said John. "He keeps pushing his people into the public eye. It's a dangerous gamble, though, especially if they were willing to bomb a ferry terminal on home soil." 

"They've tried mass events, but Ingram always seems to get a tip-off. I don't care about that," Mark said, wiping his mouth. "I want to know what Ingram did for the ISA that gave them such a boner to kill him. It has to be huge." 

"I'm going slow," said John. "He's not stupid, he knows I'm in intelligence. There's only so much I can get out of him at once."

Mark stood up and brushed himself down. "Well, speed it up," he said. "I don't trust the ISA with something that big, not after they fucked up the kill orders on Aquino and Szilar. Watch your back. I don't want to lose you in the crossfire." 

John bought lunch and walked to a park to eat it. After sitting in the closed restaurant with Mark, all he wanted was fresh air and food he could eat out of a paper bag. He hadn't understood until today that a time was coming when he would no longer be able to follow orders. It was both terrifying and exhilarating just to realise that fact, let alone make a plan for the time when Mark asked him to kill Nathan. 

In Kenya, he and Kara courted weapons dealer for his contacts with Al-Shabaab. They'd lined Kara up as the honey trap, but in the cloakroom of the expensive club, the man slipped a hand against the small of John's back with a knowing look. 

"Is that how it is?" John said softly to him, knowing Kara would pick it up on her earpiece. 

"If you like." The man stepped closer, naked want on his face, and John wondered how anyone could be so stupid as to let desire make them this vulnerable. Then he thought about what he'd do to protect Jess, the risks he'd already taken just to be with her. 

Sensing something wrong, the man stepped back. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to…" 

"Hey," John said, reaching for him, pushing those mental images away so he could concentrate. "It's okay, we're on the same channel." 

"Could you maybe rally a little enthusiasm?" Kara drawled in his ear. John could tell she was rolling her eyes, could picture her expression as she watched the rest of the club for danger. "He spent all night diligently staring down my cleavage." She sighed dramatically while John slammed the man against the wood panelled wall and kissed him roughly. "These closeted psychos really piss me off. I hope we get to terminate him. Hey, you think we'll be back in the States soon? I wanna meet up with my little cutie pie. Ream out his ass a little more." 

"Ngggh," said John, with an arms dealer greedily sucking his cock. 

"Funny. That's exactly what he said." He heard Kara take a sip from her martini. "While you're enjoying yourself, don't forget to get us some usable footage." 

John sighed and fumbled in his pocket for his phone. 

John could follow Nathan's social media freely now that he had official sanction from Mark. Now, though, knowing Nathan's gamble against the government that they'd be unwilling to kill someone prominent in the public eye, he felt a constant pinch of worry whenever Nathan posted a selfie on a plane or at a theatre or restaurant. It wouldn't be so difficult for the agency that had bombed a ferry terminal to take out a restaurant or a nightclub. At least Nathan had made an informed decision. John worried for the people that he dragged along in his retinue. 

It was a little reassuring when a sandy-haired man began appearing on the sidelines of photographs, dressed in a suit, obviously armed and standing in the classic security pose: hands in front of groin, eyes fixed on the asset. Maybe Harold had talked Nathan into getting a bodyguard. John spent his scant leisure time trying to identify the man. In Bangkok, a triad heavy said he'd known the guy in Darfur, with one of Blackwater's security off-shoots. 

"Stupid American," the guy said, when John showed him the photo. "Present company excluded, right?" He'd followed with a hearty slap on John's back.

"Right," said John, knowing just as well as he did that they'd both shoot the other if it came down to it. 

In France, at Courchevel as ski season heated up, John found himself on the same mountain peak as Nathan, so he set up a meet. Kara was schmoozing a Saudi businessman, seeking a way into a weapons manufacturing network, and John left her to it. In his ski gear, he crunched through the snow and the pines to Nathan's chalet. 

Nathan was sunk up to his chin in the Jacuzzi when John appeared through the trees and stepped onto the wooden deck. Immediately, John was tackled by the sandy blond bodyguard, a full body blow that tipped them both off the deck. They rolled over and over in the snow until John got his arm locked around the man's neck in a headlock. The man's lip was bloodied and his legs thrashed in the loose snow. He'd drawn his weapon but John had his arms pinned. 

"Cut it out! I'm a friendly," John hissed at him. "Didn't he tell you I was coming over?" 

"No!" the man said through gritted teeth. "Asshole doesn't tell me any damn thing. Says he likes to be spontaneous." 

John let him go and stood, then offered him a hand up. The man hesitated then took it, heaving himself out of the snow. 

"Well," said Nathan from the deck, where he stood wrapped in a robe, steaming in the cold air. He raised his champagne glass to them in a salute. "That was certainly bracing. You okay, Rick? It's fine to call me asshole, by the way. I'm in favour of a relaxed workplace." 

Rick brushed the snow from his suit and stepped back onto the deck. "Asshole," he muttered as he passed Nathan. He went inside the glass doors where he could stuff his nose with Kleenex and still keep an eye on Nathan. 

Nathan shrugged and sipped his wine. "Oops," he said. "Hope he doesn't quit. You want some wine?" 

"No," said John, and stepped up on the deck. "Get some clothes on or get back in the water, unless you want those fingers to snap off like twigs. Frostbite doesn't play well on Instagram." 

Nathan sighed, shed his robe and kicked off his slippers, then slid back into the Jacuzzi. "Why is everyone in a terrible mood?" 

John brushed the snow off a wooden sun lounge and sat on it. "Maybe it's because you're acting like a spoilt baby?" he offered. 

"I am not!" Nathan said, irritably. "Ugh, you're right, I am. It's true. I'm sorry." He tilted his head backwards and shouted towards the glass doors. "I'm sorry, Rick!"

Rick, his nose still swollen but no longer bleeding, had by now assumed a watchful position just inside the door where he could be by Nathan's side in a moment. He gave John a polite, if not exactly respectful nod.

"Be as much of an asshole as you like," John said. He topped up Nathan's glass and poured one for himself. "Don't take it out on your bodyguard. The guy has to stand in the way of a bullet for you."

"I know. He's just always there, you know? I didn't want a bodyguard but Harold was very hard to dissuade. You know how he gets." Nathan drained his glass by half in one swallow, and gazed moodily out over the mountains. John sipped more decorously, and sat quietly by the Jacuzzi. Nathan wasn't the sort to dwell on his troubles for long. 

"I heard you met Grace," Nathan said, after a while. "Wish I could have been there to see it. Harold must have been ready to swallow his tongue." His tone was as close to bitter as John had ever heard. He frowned, sipped his own champagne and tried to find a place for that anger he could see simmering in Nathan. 

"You'd rather have introduced us?" he ventured. "You wanted to show me the Bat Cave yourself?" 

Nathan splashed his hand through the water, sent a wave skimming to the edge of the hot tub. "It sounds so petty when you say it. I just hate being stuck here without my friends." 

"I can't really imagine Harold in a ski suit," John said. 

Nathan laughed, despite his sour expression. "You're right. Even before the explosion. But he couldn't anyway: he had another surgery." John must have reacted with surprise because Nathan added on quickly, "It's all scheduled stuff, don't worry. They're always taking pins out and putting new pins in." He gestured at the scattering of scars across his face. "It was my turn at first – skin grafts heal faster than bone. And I was never quite as badly off as him, not once they got my heart started again." 

He turned in the water so he could look up at John. "I know who you work for, John. I'm not naïve enough to think that you're here of your own volition." 

John swallowed a mouthful of the excellent champagne. "I've had worse assignments," he said, waving at the surroundings. "I wouldn't call this arduous."

"Not arduous?" Nathan raised an eyebrow and reached for a towel. He pushed himself up out of the Jacuzzi and towelled himself off. "Maybe we need to go inside and try a bit harder." 

This time, though, Nathan's mood infiltrated the bedroom, too: there was something a little darker to the way he bent John and took him, something more demanding and less blithe about the sex, though he was still scrupulously careful to make sure John came. Afterwards, John watched him carefully as he lay stretched out on the bed with one arm thrown over his eyes. It was snowing lightly, a faint hiss against the French doors, but every half hour, John saw the shadow of the blond man patrolling the exterior of the house. 

"Why the bodyguard, all of a sudden," John asked into the silence. "Did something happen?" 

Nathan breathed steadily and quietly for a bit, until John thought he must have fallen asleep, but then he answered. "I'm being followed. Phone lines are getting tapped. I think the government is revising the risk of killing me splashily in public," he said, surprisingly calm. "That's why I'm noisily in France and everyone else is back home." He glanced sideways at John from under his forearm. "I guess that expression means it's not your people." 

"I don't think it's my people," said John, considering Mark's conversation. "Their main interest in you is the way other services have been sniffing around." 

Nathan sighed and rolled on his side to face John. "As long as they're sniffing around me and not the others, I'll keep tap dancing for them." 

"What do they want?" John asked. "What can you possibly know that is this valuable? Is this software really so valuable?" His phone chimed and he reached across the bed to get it. 

"You have no idea," Nathan said. "It's racked up quite the body count by now." 

John was about to ask more about it, but the text from Kara cut his words off. 

_> Heads up: two choppers incoming. Think there's an op going down._

A moment after John read it, he heard the low thrum of rotors, and the thud of footsteps on the interior stairs. In one smooth move, he pushed Nathan off the mattress to the space on the carpet between the bed and the wall. Gun in one hand, he kept his other pressed against Nathan's head to keep him still. 

Someone knocked softly at the door. "Mr Ingram? It's Dillinger. We need to relocate." 

John checked under the door: one pair of boots. He opened it, checked that it was in fact Rick of the bloodied nose, and let him in. "Get up," he said to Nathan. "I think those choppers are for you." 

"What?" Nathan said, but he stood and pulled on some clothes. John did the same while Dillinger checked the windows. He and John tilted their heads in the same direction: the choppers were definitely circling above the house. They both drew their weapons. 

"What are the exits?" John rummaged in the wardrobe to find a heavy coat for Nathan as well as the most waterproof footwear in case they had to go overland. Bewildered, Nathan shrugged into both. 

"Main road down into the town," said Dillinger. "Smaller road through the woods to Hotel Dauphin, walking track to the ski lift." The two of them bundled Nathan down the stairs. "The vehicle's white and armoured, we've got a good chance of evading while they're still in the air." 

"Do I get a say in this?" Nathan said, in a tone of voice that suggested this wasn't a question. 

"No!" John and Dillinger both spoke at the same time, and Nathan glowered. John hoped this mercurial mood of his wouldn't bring about a foolish decision. 

He and Dillinger fell into standard bodyguard formation: Dillinger as the vanguard, opening doors and clearing rooms, and John with a good grip on Nathan's shoulder, brought up the rear.

Dillinger seemed decent enough at his job, or at least adequately invested in his own self-preservation. John covered them as Dillinger hustled a protesting Nathan into the back seat of an SUV with snow chains fitted then slid into the driver's seat. He leaned on the open window to speak with John. 

"Head to the Dauphin," John said. "There's a covered road they use to bring supplies up from the town. Bribe the sommelier; he'll let you use their vehicle to get to town." 

"Not coming with?" Dillinger asked, turning the engine over. It started with a purr; the garage it had been parked in was heated. 

John shook his head. "If you've got any explosives, I'll set up a diversion here, maybe cover your tracks." 

Dillinger reached over to the back seat then hoisted a canvas backpack out of the window. "Have fun," he said, and put the car in gear. 

Nathan wound his window down. "John, be careful," he said, leaning out as if to give him a goodbye kiss. 

John pushed him back by the shoulder and pulled the safety belt down for him. "Do what Dillinger tells you to," he said, as Nathan buckled it up. "And tell Jessica…" He stopped, trying to sum up his feelings in a few words. "Tell her I think about her," he said. "Be safe." 

From the front, Dillinger put the window back up. John heard the clunk of the child locks, and he gave Nathan a nod goodbye. The chain-covered wheels dug at the snow and they were away. 

John opened the bag to find a mix of grenades: he wouldn't normally approve of storing ordnance jumbled up like this, but in this situation, he was glad to have some choices. He spent a few minutes setting them up, then retreated to the trees to wait. 

The choppers came in to land, spraying snow up in arcs, and two teams emerged. John snapped photos, zooming in each face in turn. He sent the images and left the scene before they found the stash of explosives. 

Back through the pine forest and another few hundred yards up the mountain, Kara waited for him on the terrace outside their room. She was dressed après-ski in pale green cashmere. She passed him a glass handled mug that steamed in the cold air. 

"Hot toddy," she said, and patted his cheek with soft, gloved fingers. "Look at you all glowing with exertion. What have you been up to?" 

John sipped the warm drink and checked his phone. "All sorts of things," he said, and counted down the last few minutes. If they were smart, they'd have found the explosives and disarmed them. If they weren't, well. That was informative, too. 

He sipped his hot drink, enjoying the burn of the whiskey and the sting of lemon. As the adrenaline settled, he realised he had enjoyed protecting Nathan. It had been good to feel his mind reach for solutions, to feel competent and able to keep his friend safe. He should remember that feeling the next time his work felt bleak and isolating: those skills weren't just for causing pain and death. 

Across the valley there was a flash, rosy-red on the snowy landscape, and the resulting whump of sound carried easily through the cold air. All around them, on terraces and balconies, people turned to watch a wall of snow slide from the mountainside behind Nathan's chalet, burying the building until only the peaked roof was visible. 

Kara snorted and downed the rest of her drink. "John, I am impressed," she said, and gripped his arm. "I think you might have had more fun than me today."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara and John get a new mission with many complicating factors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for show-typical dental procedures in this chapter.

Mark slid the photos that John had taken in France over the pool table, lining them up. The pub was empty this early, but the street outside was already thrumming with traffic as Dublin woke up to a winter morning.

Kara pottered behind the bar, checking out the barkeep's shotgun, looking for secret stashes of money or drugs. She experimentally pulled a pint of stout, and pleased with the skill level required to fill the glass without spilling it over, quickly set up a line of pints that foamed gently. 

"They're ISA," Mark said. "This team is Catalyst Indigo – I don't know all of the operatives, but this Wilson is a piece of work." He pointed to a weasel-faced man with slick hair, who had directed his team to search the chalet. 

"Nice job with the grenades, by the way," he added. "They had to get rescue services to dig them out. Took a few days to get the mess squared away properly, and Ingram was back in the States by then." 

John leaned against the wall while Mark perused his work. "This isn't ISA's job," he said. "Ingram's no terrorist threat. They're doing someone's dirty work." 

Bored with pulling beers, Kara swiped a bottle of tequila and wandered over. "This guy I've seen at the White House," she said, pointing at an older man with a coldly calm expression. "He's personal security, I think." 

"Hersh," said Mark. "I thought he was in recruitment – I know he trained most of Catalyst Indigo. Okay. Good work, John. I've got a lot to dig into here." He swept the photos together and slid them back in the envelope, and placed a folder in the middle of the table. "Here's your new assignment."

Kara swigged from the tequila and flipped the folder open. "Jesus, this little hamster?"

"Daniel Casey," said Mark. "He hacked into secure files and stole data, which he's trying to sell. Terminate him, get hold of the data if you can."

John picked up the rest of the file and flicked through it. "We're the second team assigned to this?" Kara held the tequila bottle in his direction and he shook his head. "What happened to the first team?" Casey didn't seem the kind of threat that could take out trained killers. 

"They bought it in a car crash," Mark said. He reached for the bottle and took a mouthful. "Not sure if it was bad luck, or if Casey interfered with the onboard computer – he's a tech head, did a lot of white hat ops for the government, testing systems." 

John glanced from one folder to the other. "Is this about Ingram?"

Mark was unsettled by the question, which meant he didn't know. "Does it mean you'll kill him differently if it is?" he asked, acid. 

"Don't worry, Mark." Kara swiped the folder and tucked it under her arm. "I'll keep John in line." 

On the plane, she said, "I know you're seeing Jessica." 

John tried to find a place for that, the way she just said it, out in the open, but all he could do was bristle. "And?" he said, deliberately calm. "You've got your piece on the side, too." 

"That's what I mean, John." Kara sipped her drink. "I'm trying to tell you maybe having a regular fucktoy has given me a change in perspective." 

It didn't seem likely to John from the little he'd heard about this man, but since Kara knew about Jessica, he'd take any co-operation he could get. 

"Okay," he said. "As long as you know I'm not up for a double date."

That seemed to amuse Kara, who laughed on and off for the whole flight. While the plane taxied on the runway at JFK, she said, "All I'm saying is I'll cover for you, if you cover for me." She held out her hand to shake. "Deal?" 

Uneasy, John took her hand and shook it. 

The Daniel Casey mission leapt off the rails when John saw Dillinger prowling the entry of Casey's hotel. Dillinger spotted him, too, but was smart enough not to do a double take. While Kara ogled Dillinger and ran through her list of things she wanted to do to him, John carefully manoeuvred himself out of the man's sight. 

When his earpiece switched on with a soft tone, John jumped and Kara glanced at him, curious. He shook his head to indicate it was nothing. 

"Mr Reese." Harold's voice was in his ear, quiet and calm. "I take from your presence here that your target is Mr Casey." 

John scanned the buildings, trying to place Harold's position. 

"I'm using the security camera over the door behind you," Harold said. "Mr Casey is our latest number. I think we can identify you as the threat to his life." 

John leaned towards Kara and gestured at Dillinger. "Does Casey have the funds to employ someone like that to protect him? He's been on the run for a while, and he hasn't accessed his accounts since then." 

Kara shrugged. "Who knows what he's stashed away? He's probably been selling his country out for years." 

Harold waited for Kara to finish speaking. Then, when John straightened up, and the chance of her hearing the voice in his ear was less, he spoke. "Mr Casey has not betrayed his country. He was working for the government when it became expedient to eliminate him. Mr Dillinger volunteered to assist us with his protection." There was a pause, then he added, annoyed, "Well. Nathan volunteered Mr Dillinger, but I will admit, he is capable. More capable than Nathan, certainly." 

John felt a chill that wasn't from the New York snow. He did not want Harold watching him work. It was an awkward moment, standing next to Kara, feeling his conscience tussle with his pride, and realising that he cared a lot what Harold thought of him. Maybe it was an extension of what he wanted to be for Jessica: a hero, a protector, strong and good. For a short time, working with Harold and Grace, he'd been that person. 

Casey left his hotel room, hunched and cautious as he walked along the road, and John was glad to push Harold's presence to the back of his mind. John was calculating the best place to shoot Dillinger and maintain his own cover in front of Kara. The sudden appearance of a second extraction team was a welcome surprise even if it meant a three-way shoot-out, and a hostage in Kara's hands. 

Harold kept thankfully quiet in his ear, if he was even listening anymore. That was a relief: John couldn't work and listen to that voice, not when he had Kara at his side and a mission to complete. It would get him, or Casey or Dillinger or all of them killed. When he had a second, he took the earpiece out. 

He had a chance to speak with Harold while Kara had some alone time with their hostage. In the men's room of the empty office building they were using as a base, he slipped in the earpiece, found a new and unnamed contact in his call log and dialled it. 

"Mr Reese," Harold said on the first ring. 

John leaned against the bathroom wall and stared at his own reflection. "Reel Dillinger in," he said. "I nearly had to shoot him this afternoon."

"I'm afraid I don't have many options right now," Harold said. "It's him or nobody, and he did pull Casey out of trouble." 

It occurred to John that he could go to the library right now, perhaps find Casey, certainly find Harold and interrogate him. He pushed his fingers against his eyelids, trying to sort the tangled strings of his life that had suddenly ensnared. 

"Is this how it works?" he asked, surprised at how tired his voice was. 

Harold sounded puzzled. "I'm not sure what you're referring to." 

"You keep Jessica safe, and it gives you leverage over my missions." John weighed the possibilities up in his mind: would he betray his country to protect Jessica? Absolutely. Without a second thought. Harold must know that. "And then you extend the same deal to Casey." It was perfect. No wonder the ISA had tried to blow Nathan and Harold up. 

Harold was silent for a long time. Outside the bathroom, John heard the Scottish man gurgle. Kara was back at work. 

"Mr Reese," Harold said eventually. "I help Jessica because she needs help. I would do so regardless of her friendship with you. I will continue to do so, should you decide to kill Mr Casey. I help Jessica for Jessica's sake, not yours." The kindness in his voice, so unexpected, was at the same time an excoriating thing for John. He felt filthy, tired and hopeless, but he turned the earpiece off and went through the door to help Kara torture their prisoner. 

The mission was difficult, and even more so with the sensation of Harold watching over John's shoulder, though he didn't hijack John's earpiece again. While he worked, he turned over options to get Casey clear. Casey wasn't the first target he'd managed to secrete away under Kara's nose, but he had to be much more careful, knowing that Harold and Dillinger could not be exposed. 

He caught up with Casey outside the home of the man who was forging him new papers. By then, John had almost convinced himself that Harold was no longer eavesdropping, but when he drew his gun on the kid, he heard a soft noise on the earpiece. It wasn't a gasp, but it was a definite presence. 

He was watching Casey manoeuvre the pliers in his mouth with a doubtful expression when Harold said, "I take it this is not your first time diverting a target." 

His voice was odd, words spilling out loosely with emotionality that John hadn't heard before. He wondered if Harold was drunk. 

"I'm not putting a bullet in a scared kid who did nothing wrong." Whatever else you might think of me, he added silently. On the asphalt in front of him, Casey sat cross-legged and sweating as he wiggled a molar loose. 

"I'm glad," Harold said. "For Mr Casey's sake and yours. It's not that I doubt your integrity, you understand. Just that I am a realist. Not an Impressionist." 

John frowned, uncertain about where this conversation was going. 

"It's a joke," Harold said hurriedly into the sudden silence. "Oh, damn, I've ruined the punchline, haven't I? Grace will be appalled. The point is that there I'm well aware, Mr Reese, that your work requires you to do things you regret. And that those things take a toll on the person you are." His voice wandered, as if he were distracted, and John heard the thud-clunk of a car crossing the metal plates of a parking garage. 

Casey had the first molar out now. He swayed where he sat, clammy and green with a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth. John used a Ziploc bag to pick up the tooth, then pushed the pliers back into Casey's fumbling hands, guided them back towards his mouth. 

Harold, meanwhile, kept talking in a long, rambling sentence interspersed with traffic sounds. "And yes, Mr Reese. I know you want to reassure me that you are just fine, but I am starting to believe that it's been a long, long, long…" He paused, evidently thinking of how long exactly he meant. "… long time since you really understood what those words are supposed to mean." 

A horn blared over the line, and tires screeched. John winced. "Not sure you should be behind the wheel right now, Finch." 

"S'that Harold?" Casey said. One side of his face was starting to swell. "S'he okay?" 

"Why wouldn't he be?" John said. 

In his ear, Harold made a wandering protest. "I am perfectly fine, Mr Reese, and I'll thank you not to point out any irony you think you may see in my statement because I think under examination you'll find that…" John cut the call off. 

At his feet, Casey held up the pliers. "Take out the other one for me, and I'll tell you." 

John didn't have to – he could point out that if Casey didn't have the fortitude to pull his own teeth, he wasn't likely to survive going on the run – but he'd lingered too long in this alley and he needed to get moving to ostensibly dispose of Casey's body. He took the pliers and put Casey in a headlock, pressed hard against John's thigh. Casey squeezed his eyes shut and opened his mouth. The second molar was out in the matter of a few minutes, and then safely tucked away.

When it was done, Casey tore strips from his t-shirt. While he packed them into his mouth, he muttered indistinctly. John thought he caught the name 'Dillinger'. 

"What about Dillinger?" John said. Casey's face was already swelling, as hamster-like as Kara had dubbed him when they first got this assignment. He scrambled back to his feet, swaying slightly, and John steadied him, gripping his shoulder. When his colour came back, John passed him his duffel bag. 

"Tell me about Dillinger," John said again. 

"He drugged Harold," Casey said, thickly though the wadding in his mouth. "The laptop – Harold set up a sale, to get some of the heat off me. Dillinger decided to cash in so he doped up Harold's tea and stole the laptop for himself." He slung the bag over his shoulder. "He was meeting someone in Central Park." 

"Get moving," said John, and left him. 

He made it from Red Hook to Central Park in time to find Harold standing in the middle of a path, an uncertain expression on his face. Harold walked away, moving between the trees with awkward steps, and John trotted to catch up with him. When John caught him by the elbow, Harold jumped and winced with pain. 

"Mr Reese?" he said. He moved stiffly and his reaction time was very sluggish. Pentobarb, John thought. 

"How much did he give you?" John said, disturbingly angry about this betrayal. He hadn't considered Dillinger a great soldier, but he'd seemed competent and, if not loyal exactly, then well-paid enough to stay loyal. 

Harold shook his arm free and kept walking. His steps were so loud in the night, feet dragging on branches and rustling dead leaves. It made John twitch. 

"I didn't want him on this mission," Harold said. "We had nobody else to send, and Nathan… Nathan has been particularly annoying lately. It seems that Mr Dillinger decided to cut his losses and seek other revenue streams."

"What's he selling?" John said. He pushed himself ahead of Harold, so that he could at least clear a path for him, lead them towards safer, quieter territory. 

Harold didn't answer, apart from an occasional sound of pain as his foot came down awkwardly or he wrenched his back. 

"Okay," said John. "Can you at least tell me what it's worth? It'll give me an idea of the level of threat we might be facing." 

Light from a street lamp fell between the trees, and John saw that Harold's mouth was grim, his eyes shadowed and hollow. 

"That bad, huh." John heard voices at a point where the walking path made a crossroads. "Wait here, I'll go and scout." He walked forward through the trees, careful and quiet. He watched Dillinger negotiate with a group of Chinese men. 

"You idiot," John said softly. "How do you think this comes out for you?" 

He heard Harold's steps behind him, and was about to turn to admonish him when there was a gunshot, the quiet zip of a suppressor. Dillinger folded downwards with a surprised expression and a spreading red stain on his shirt. 

John moved instinctively: identify the position of the shooter, get as much cover as possible, make sure Harold is safe. As he moved, John wondered briefly why he'd made this choice rather than take the shooter on himself, then he realised that if he caught a bullet, it would expose Harold, leaving him with no protection. He grabbed Harold by the shoulders and pushed him against a tree trunk, covering him with his own body. He was armoured, Harold was not. He felt Harold's breath on his neck, rapid and short with fear or pain. 

Another shot, and John peered out from behind the tree trunk: the Chinese men scurried for their van while the shooter picked them off. The car accelerated away with a squeal of tires. The shooter appeared out of the darkness, took up a tactical stance – military-trained, John noted, not police – and fired. It was a tricky shot but the driver's head flicked back with the impact and the van left the ground in that slow-motion way of all traffic accidents. It rolled over and over, crumpling with each turn, eventually landing on all four wheels with a bounce.

The air rang with silence after the crash, then John heard the footsteps of the shooter. He kept Harold still, pinned to the tree with his own body. 

Lying flat on his back, Dillinger moaned, the sound bubbling in his throat. Harold shifted against John, crunching leaves underfoot. 

"Stay still!" John hissed in his ear. Out on the path, the footsteps stopped. John held his breath and slowly eased his gun from his holster. Pressed against his cheek, he could feel Harold's mouth opening to speak. John put a hand over Harold's mouth and met his eyes. He shook his head gently, and Harold blinked. The footsteps moved again, this time towards where Dillinger lay. The shooter spoke to Dillinger, words low and undecipherable. Harold's breaths came fast and panicked against John's palm; he was trying to move, to help Dillinger, but John was too strong. He held Harold in place, kept eye contact with him as the shooter fired twice more into Dillinger's chest. Harold's body jumped against John's as if he were the one being shot, and he squeezed his eyes shut. John didn't know why, but he rested his cheek on Harold's forehead and whispered to him, nonsense words that didn't mean anything. 

"It's okay," he said under his breath. "It's okay – it was quick, he didn't know." 

When John was certain the shooter had left, he moved back from the tree. Harold pushed at his chest to get free, stepped awkwardly to the side and was violently sick in the undergrowth. John kept his palm on the small of his back to stop him tipping over. 

They had a fight when Harold refused to leave Dillinger dead in the park. John explained, patiently at first and then in frustration, that the shooter would be back soon, probably with a clean-up crew to go over the site for intel and prep the bodies for disposal. 

"I won't leave him," Harold said, again. "For one thing, I can't have them tracing his work back to me. To the numbers. To _Grace,_ " he said with emphasis. 

John found this logic deeply suspect. Harold was definitely in shock. Still, it was faster and easier to agree with him than to lift him bodily from Dillinger's side and carry him away. At the edge of the park he hotwired an electrician's van and, ignoring Harold's offers of assistance, hefted Dillinger's body into the back. 

Harold, not to be deterred, climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat, and, too tired to argue with him, John simply drove away from the park and into the night. 

As he drove through the darkness, he glanced at Harold's face, washed pale by the streetlights. Dillinger's death, Casey's flight, these had all taken a toll on him tonight. He was probably still full of Pentobarb, and anyway, how long had it been since the surgery Nathan had mentioned? John had to concentrate to add up the dates. 

"Let me call Grace," he said eventually into the silence. "I can drop you off, go and take care of this myself." 

Harold sat up straighter in his seat, his face sharper and more focused suddenly. "No," he said firmly. "I don't want her to know anything about this."

"She didn't know you were working this number? I thought that wasn't your decision to make? Isn't that the agreement you two worked out?" 

Harold's expression was one of misery: regret and anguish and guilt, so intense and painful that John realised he'd forgotten that Harold was, after all, a civilian. This was very much not a thing he'd expect a civilian to cope with. He reached out and took Harold's hand, cold in his own. He squeezed it, laid it gently back in Harold's lap. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Let's just get this thing done." 

The night took on a dream-like atmosphere. They had an odd conversation while driving, about the best places to bury a body this close to the city. Harold's ideas were largely theoretical, but there was some overlap with John's more practical experience. 

Harold sat in the open door of the van while John cut into the ground with a shovel and started work. After ten minutes of digging, he slipped out of his jacket and passed it to Harold, then rolled his sleeves up. The earth was hard and packed with clay, and he was soon sweating.

"I didn't like him," Harold said. "He didn't deserve to die, but it feels disingenuous not to admit that I was not fond of him." He was waxy-pale, with a sheen of sweat over his forehead despite the cold. Still shocky, John thought. 

John leaned on the shovel handle while he stared at the body, grey and still in the van. "He knew what he was getting into," he said. "Don't blame yourself for his stupidity." Harold's bewilderment only pointed out the vast differences between John and Harold's worlds. This – being out in the middle of the night, digging a grave for a man too foolish to save his own life – was a mundane situation for John, and yet a life-changing one for Harold. 

"Tell me about Daniel Casey," he said, to change the subject, but Harold didn't answer. John pushed the shovel into the clay and heaved out another cubic block of earth. 

Eventually, Harold spoke into the quiet. "You let him go." 

John stood two feet deep, making calculated progress on the grave. The edges were clean and perpendicular, unlikely to collapse inwards. 

"He wasn't the first, either," Harold said. "You have an established escape route, contacts, a planned destination. Why?" 

John considered it, while he piled dirt outside the hole. "It was the right thing to do," he said. "I signed on to make my country safer, not to clean up the agency's mistakes." 

"They don't deserve you." Harold rubbed his forehead, somehow leaving a smudge of dirt there, despite never actually touching the mud. "And you deserve better than them." 

The hole was shoulder-deep now, and the cold from the damp earth was seeping through John's sweat-soaked shirt. "Maybe not at the start," he said. "But we're all in the same bed now." He heaved himself carefully up onto the edge of the grave, and then up onto his feet. Dillinger's skin was cold as John patted him down for identifying documents, though rigor was still some hours away. John took his wallet and weapons, his earpiece and phone, and then paused. It would be normal practice to shoot the victim in the face, take his fingerprints, destroy his teeth. It was an ugly process, and messy. 

"Don't," said Harold, who apparently brought prescience to grave digging parties. "Nobody will find him out here – let him rest with dignity." 

"You're the one obsessed about the evidence trail," John said. He leaned against the van. The chill in the air was beginning to goose-pimple his skin where he'd sweated through his shirt. 

Harold leaned forward as if to rest his head in his palms, then jerked with obvious pain and closed his eyes instead as if simply not seeing the open grave would make it not exist. 

John reached down and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We're almost done here." He wrapped Dillinger in an old blanket he'd found in the van, lifted the body in his arms and rolled it into the grave. He picked up the shovel and went to the pile of earth, then glanced back at Harold. 

"You want to say some words before I finish this?" he asked. It wasn't his practice – it wasn't as if he believed in anything anymore – but Harold was new to this. 

Harold gave a tiny shake of his head. "That seems to be a thing people do to give themselves peace," he said. "I can't imagine what would work here." 

John nodded and started to fill in the hole. When he was done, and was stamping down the cut pieces of scraggly grass-covered turf, he turned to find Harold standing very close to him.

"You okay?" he asked. Harold was still pale and definitely wobbly on his feet. He'd taken off his glasses, and his eyes were ridiculously huge. 

Harold reached out for John's shirt to pull him close, pressing their bodies together despite the mud all over John's clothes. John didn't realise what was happening until Harold kissed him with an open mouth, furious and desperate.   
John started, then cradled Harold's jaw gently as he pulled them apart again. Harold's skin was very cold.

Harold breathed heavily and his fingers clenched in the fabric of John's filthy shirt. "I should apologise for that, but I'm not going to," he said, his voice uneven. "I needed to touch someone alive, and you are so very alive, John." 

"It's okay," John said. "It's okay." His hand still rested on Harold's jaw, and his fingers moved carefully against the stubbled skin. He thought of all the things Harold had seen him do today, and wondered how Harold could even imagine touching John. It left him with nothing to say, so instead he brushed at a smear of mud he'd left on Harold's cheek. It seemed fitting somehow that he left more dirt behind than he removed. 

"We'd better get moving," he said, eventually. "You need to get out of the cold, and we both need a shower." John knew this reaction, he'd seen it before, he'd felt it before: an intense emotional response was entirely normal in this entirely abnormal situation. John could see Harold through this, get him home safely, make sure he was clean and warm. It went a little way towards making up for the things Harold had seen him do today. 

Harold was quiet in the passenger seat while they drove back to the city, but gave directions to an address where they could clean up. The townhouse was expensively and stylishly furnished, with Wedgewood blue walls, but still had an impersonal, unlived-in feel. When John got back from ditching the van, Harold still stood in the middle of the hall, swaying slightly and staring at nothing.

"Come on," John said, and pushed him gently towards the bathroom. Bathrooms, as he discovered. Once Harold was facing the shower cubicle, he gathered himself. 

"Thank you, Mr Reese. For your help tonight, and…" He paused, searching for the right words, rubbing at the streak of mud on his cheek. "For your understanding. There are clothes for you in the guest bedroom." Then he closed the door, definitively but politely, in John's face. 

John peeled himself out of his ruined suit, and called to check in with Kara. 

"You ditched that body yet?" Kara said. 

Over the line, John heard a man whimpering. "Just cleaning up now," he said. "You okay? That sounds dramatic." 

Kara laughed, a delighted sound. "Oh, that's my boo. Turns out he's a New Yorker after all, so I dropped in unexpectedly." 

The whimpers increased in volume and John frowned. "Is that a good idea after this op? It was messy enough without you having another body to deal with."

"Don't worry," said Kara. "I won't kill him. He loves this. Practically begged me to give it to him hard. Listen." She did something and the whimpers became a sudden wail of anguish. "Shut up! Do you want me to leave? I can just stop, right now." 

Over the line, John heard sobbing, then the man said, "No, please, please stay. I'll be good, I'll be good." 

"See, John? We're both being very good, I promise." 

John spared a thought for the nameless idiot who had gotten himself tangled up in Kara's idea of pleasure, then let it go. "Well, enjoy yourself." He hung up, turned the faucet in the shower, and stepped under the scalding water. His life was complicated enough. He didn't have the energy to deal with Kara's mind games. 

When he came out of the bathroom in a suit that fitted with eerie perfection, Harold stood in the living room, talking on the phone. The room, with its blue walls and perfect cream furniture, felt cold and empty as a museum display. 

"This is not a game, Nathan! Dillinger is dead. How long before there's a direct retaliation? This public gamble you've made with Mr Szilard and Doctor Aquino's lives – with Grace's life! – will eventually fail."

John had never heard Harold raise his voice before. Not even when they'd first spoken, when John had plucked the earpiece from Nathan's unconscious body and Harold had no idea what had happened, had he sounded so raw. John walked past to the liquor cabinet, selected two heavy glasses and poured them both a substantial drink. 

Harold hung up on Nathan, and started at John's sudden appearance, apparently astonished to find him still here. Then he took the glass John proffered, and, moving gingerly, sat down on the cream daybed in silence. 

John sipped his scotch and waited. In one of the pockets of the tailored suit, he could feel Daniel Casey's teeth, snug in their Ziploc bag. 

"I am sorry for forcing my attentions on you," Harold said, eventually. "That was unspeakably rude, even allowing for the situation. Please accept my apologies." 

John shrugged. "Sure. It's more common than you'd think. If I had a dollar for every graveside tussle I've been caught up in, I'd have…" He calculated. "Thirteen dollars." 

Harold did not acknowledge the blithe tone, or take the opening John had given him to change the subject. "I know that you and Nathan have some kind of relationship," he said. "I apologise if tonight impinges on that." 

There wasn't really any way to explain what John and Nathan had, nor what John and Jessica were involved in. "How did you put it that day?" John asked. "I've come to realise my life is very far from traditional." Speaking of which. "Is Grace going to be worried about you?" he asked, tentatively. 

Harold gave a weak smile and held up his phone, where a long line of notifications were lit up on the screen. They were from Grace, and they grew increasingly frantic, filled with expletives and angry emoji. "I just don't know what to tell her," he said. 

John reached for the phone, and Harold released it, after ghosting his thumb over the button to unlock it. John opened the messages and hit redial. Grace picked up on the first ring. 

"I am really glad you're not dead, mister, because now I can come around and kill you for not picking up."

"Hey, Grace, it's John. Harold is fine," John said, hurriedly, before he incurred the same wrath that was radiating across the line. "We had a bad night – we lost Dillinger." 

He heard Grace's anger dissipate instantly. "Oh, Jesus, John, I'm so sorry. Are you hurt? Is Harold okay? What can I do? Where are you? Should I come over?" 

John glanced down at Harold, who still stared at the scotch in his glass. "I'm fine," he said, though he wasn't sure that was the truth. "I think Harold needs a bit of breathing space right now. It's a lot to take in." 

Grace exhaled, a long, anxious breath she had obviously been holding onto. "Okay. Sure. I guess you're the expert on this stuff – oh, God, I didn't mean you're a murder expert, I'm sorry. I think – I think you're right. This is a lot. I'm going to have a drink – are you having a drink?" 

"We are," John said. "I'll get Harold to call you as soon as he's up to it." He hung up, and pointed a finger at Harold's scotch. "Don't make me lie to Grace," he said.

On the sofa, Harold sighed and sipped his drink. "I didn't like Dillinger," he said, suddenly. "He stole from me, he drugged me, he put Mr Casey at terrible risk, but I can't stop trying to find a way I might have prevented his death." 

John was about to explain again that it wasn't Harold's fault, when he heard the sound of a key in the front door, and drew his weapon, moving between Harold and the hall. 

"It's only me," Nathan called from behind the living room door. "Tell John not to shoot me." 

"I'll consider it," Harold said, grimly. 

John holstered the gun and opened the door. Nathan pulled him into a hug, kissing him on the cheek. "That's for keeping Harold safe," he said. Then he planted one on the top of Harold's head, much to Harold's disgust. "And that? Is for never falling for my razzle-dazzle." 

Harold snorted and took another sip of scotch, but for the first time tonight he seemed a little brighter.

Nathan walked around the sofa and flopped down beside Harold. "I've been an ass lately, I'm sorry." 

"I have too much of a headache to roll my eyes," Harold said. "Please take it as said that I am doing it." He didn't complain when Nathan slung an arm across his shoulder, though. John passed Nathan a glass and sloshed two fingers of scotch into it. 

"I'm sorry about Rick," Nathan said. He took a swig of scotch then added, "Well. I'm sorry I hired an idiot, and I'm sorry it got him killed."

Harold's back straightened and John saw the pain of that small movement cross his face. "We got him killed, Nathan." 

"No, Harold," Nathan said, his voice patient. "He got himself killed when he stole your code and tried to sell it to the Chinese." 

"If you had not pursued this ridiculous publicity campaign in the first place," Harold started, and Nathan groaned. 

"I know. I know! But listen: that ridiculous campaign has kept everyone safe thus far. Okay, except for Dillinger, but come on. He tried to sell us out." He leaned back on the sofa and shut his eyes. "I don't want to fight about this. I always knew the loud and public strategy had an expiry date. Not even I can hold the public eye eternally and the moment their attention drifts, the government will try to make all of us disappear. Probably send poor John here to do it, too." He gave John a rueful grin. "I promise I won't hold it against you." There was something darkly cynical about his expression that gave John a chill. 

"Don't involve John in this," Harold snapped. "Not with that tone of voice." 

Nathan looked askance at this defensive response, then his gaze slipped to John, speculative. 

John shifted, unwilling to be a pawn in this argument. The airy room felt suddenly close, crowded as it was with old resentments he had no part in, so he put down his glass and stepped towards the door. 

"I'll get going," he said. "Stay safe, both of you." 

Harold pushed himself upright, awkward and uncomfortable. "Wait, John, please." 

John stopped with one hand on the door. "You know how to get in touch with me if you need to." Then he stepped out into the crisp morning air and left them to their fight.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara stages a big reveal, and John is forced to make some decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most dubcon of chapters. I wasn't sure how to tag for the thing that happens with Kara, so I've added 'surprise pairing' to the tags. 
> 
> (Wow, only five chapters left! It's going fast.)

The sun wasn't quite up yet and the chaotic morning bustle of the city was a relief after the looming, formal architecture of Harold's safehouse. John took out his phone to text Kara. 

> _Ready to rendezvous?_

After a few minutes, while he negotiated the increasing foot traffic, she sent him a pic and an invitation. 

> _Come join us! He thinks you're my husband and that we're down for a threesome._

John stared at the yawing ass of her poor victim and the intruder within, winced then typed back. 

> _Thanks, but no. I'll leave you two kids alone. Let me know when you're done._

John caught a cab into town, and somehow found his way to Grand Central. From there, New Rochelle was maybe thirty minutes away. John rolled his shoulders, closed his eyes for a moment, then bought a ticket. 

On the train, pressed in on each side by school kids and office workers, he called Jess's burner phone to leave a message. 

"It's me. Sorry to call when I don't know where we stand. I just wanted to hear your voice." He paused, watched two teenagers texting at lightning speed, completely unaware of their surroundings. "I'm on the train. If you want – if it's safe for you – I thought maybe we could have breakfast, just to talk." Then he hung up, before he went into a long spiel of apologies, for what had gone past, for possibly putting her in danger now. Better to stop himself now, because Jess knew her situation better than he did. She could make her own decisions. 

Jess called back just as he was stepping off the train. 

"Didn't we decide not to meet where I live?" She spoke very evenly. John couldn't tell if she was angry or tired or happy to hear from him. 

"I know," he said, walking down the platform. "But I know my partner's going to be occupied for a while, so that's one problem covered." He glanced up at the sky, where the sun was shining weakly through thin clouds. It was a cold morning, and his breath came out in warm gusts. 

On the phone, Jess sighed softly. "There's an IHOP behind the station," she said. "It looks sketchy but it's okay on the inside and you can't see the tables from the street." 

John peered over the back fence and saw a cheery if faded blue gabled roof. "I see it," he said. "Meet you there." 

The IHOP was an obvious stoner hangout, but clean and better maintained on the inside than out. The windows were almost opaque with scratches and grime, but as Jess had said, that made casual observation difficult from the street. John took a booth and sat, toying with the slightly tacky surface of the laminated menu. 

He spotted Jess, tall above the high-walled booths, and tilted his head to watch her. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and she was dressed in her nurse's uniform. When she walked towards his table he slid out and stood, but kept his hands at his sides, uncertain about touching her. They hadn't parted on good terms last time. 

Jess didn't have any such qualms; she reached for him and caught his elbow, then pulled him in to hug him. After a moment, he brought his arms up to wrap around her waist. They stood there a while, quiet amidst the gentle morning bustle of early breakfast diners until John felt the warmth of her skin through his shirt. He pushed his face into her collar, breathed in soap and antiseptic, felt her heart beat against his chest. He didn't realise how tense his body had been until the muscles in his back softened, leaving behind a dull ache. 

John saw the waiter hovering at the end of the aisle, and he stood upright, kissed Jess on the cheek. "You had breakfast?" he said. 

Jess shook her head. "I'm coming off shift, I'm starving." 

It was odd to feel this easy comfort with Jess, after all they'd been through in the past year. Odder still to be sitting in public with her, in New Rochelle of all places. John slumped down in his seat so that his knees brushed hers, and she smiled without looking up from the menu. She was tired, he thought, dark shadows under her eyes, but there was something tempered about her fatigue, as if she'd triumphed in some great battle. She was beautiful. 

Jess wasn't normally much of a breakfast person, but she ordered eggs, bacon and hash browns. "Rough night?" John said, after the waiter left. Fading adrenaline was still making him queasy, so he stuck with coffee. 

"Not the worst," she said, resting her chin in her palm. She searched his face. "I don't even want to ask about yours. You look like hell." 

John shrugged a shoulder and gave her a wry smile. "Not the worst."

She laughed at that, and he grinned back. This was strange and new, being able to joke about the bleakest parts of their lives. John wasn't sure if it was a good thing necessarily, but it was a relief not to hide it from Jess. 

"It's really okay to meet you here?" he asked, while they waited. 

She gave a tired shrug. "Peter's busy at work a lot lately," she said. "And he'd never come here." She pushed the saltcellar with one finger, moving it through a sprinkle of salt left by the last diners. "Honestly, if you told me he was having an affair, I wouldn't be surprised." This time her smile was ironic, a sad little twist of the lips. 

They sat in silence, companionable and weary. The adrenaline from the night's work was starting to fade; John could feel it in the ache of his back and the grit gathering at the corners of his eyes. He reached across the table with one hand and Jess met him halfway with her own. They intertwined their fingers and the quiet hum of the IHOP faded away to nothing. This mundane place was a kind of camouflage. If he and Jess could only stay very still and low, nobody from their lives would be able to see them. 

"I don't want to do the work anymore," he said, and it was suddenly true. He blinked as the reality of those words settled inside him. He didn't want to do this anymore, not the way that Mark and Kara expected him to do it. If there had to be midnight burials, he wanted it to mean something. If people had to die, if he was asked to kill them, he wanted the reason to be equal to the cost of taking a life.

Jess held onto his fingers, reached for his other hand. "I'm guessing it's not easy to walk away from."

John took a deep breath, and though the air was muggy and laden with breakfast odours, he felt his chest fill as if he'd breathing shallow for a long time. "Yeah," he said to Jess, letting the breath out again slowly. "Probably. I don't actually know anyone who left voluntarily. I'll need to find the right timing – make sure I break the news on a good day." He grinned, slightly manic. "Then run for the hills." 

"It's weird," said Jess. "I feel like I'm Shelley, telling you it's okay to get yourself safe." 

It was the first time she'd spoken openly about her situation with Peter, and it went past so easily that John didn't feel the shock of it until after the waitress had put Jess's plate down in front of her. He watched her eat while he stirred his coffee. She chewed and swallowed, a frown on her face, then forked eggs onto a piece of toast and passed it to him. 

"Please eat something while I'm stuffing myself," she said. "It's only polite." 

John folded it in half and ate it in a few bites. His mind was racing, making plans and discarding them just as fast. "If I quit, if I make it through, what happens with us?" 

Jessica paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, then shook her head. "I have no idea," she said. "Will you even be in the country? Or will you have to be on the run forever?" 

There were too many options to consider. John leaned back in his seat and ran scenarios in his mind, trying to imagine the future, trying to predict what Kara would do, who Mark would send to hunt him down. 

Eventually he shrugged. "Guess I'll take it as it comes." He cupped his chin, watching Jess eat and wondering at the euphoric, carefree feeling this decision had given him, no matter how ridiculous it was. Realistically, he knew the likelihood of escaping the agency – and especially Kara – was slim at best. For now, though, he was content to sit in this noisy, safe place while Jess sectioned her hash browns into manageable pieces. 

She held one up for him and he bit it neatly from the end of her fork. Her assault on breakfast was slowing down now, and while she picked over the remains, she gave him a sleepy smile. 

"I wish we could go get a motel," she said, then poked his shin with the tip of her shoe at his smirk. "Not for that, not after I stuffed myself. No, I mean, if I could do whatever I wanted right now, I'd go take a nap with you." 

John ruffled his own hair while he tried to add up the hours since he had last slept. Before the whole Daniel Casey debacle, maybe longer. 

"Let's go," he said suddenly. "We can find a place, there have to be plenty near the hospital." 

Jess laughed. "I am not cruising motels outside my place of employment." She leaned back and eyed him, speculative. "Nathan gave me the keys to a place," she said. "I think it's meant to be a safe place for me to run to or something. Which was typically overdramatic of him," she added quickly, awkward suddenly at this close pass Nathan had obviously made at the truth. She gave him an uncertain smile. "It probably doubles as a sex palace." 

John stroked her wrist gently, letting the moment slide past. "It sounds perfect," he said. 

Jess drove, which freed John up to watch the roads for anyone following them, and also to poke through Jess's stuff. He opened the glove box: papers, a flashlight, and a comprehensive first aid kit. He rifled through a collection of receipts and loose change in the coin tray, and counted up three different lip balms. All such normal things, all fascinating to him; he'd never had a car long enough to accumulate this kind of stuff. When Jess glanced sideways at him, he flipped the lid on a lip balm shaped like a starfish and applied it with a fingertip, smacking his lips together to make her laugh. He felt effervescent, ridiculous and light.

The house was low and modern, nestled into a dip and partially hidden by greenery. 

"Okay…" Jess said, as the electronic gates swung open at her approach. "Yeah, this is definitely a sex palace." 

A very secure one, John added silently, taking in the cameras, the facial recognition scanner and the folded line of road spikes that could stop a truck. The building itself had thick bulletproof glass and a cluster of antennae that would put Langley to shame. They drove sharply downhill to a semi-subterranean garage. John found himself slipping into the bodyguard role, moving quickly and quietly to Jess's door, shadowing her to the elevator. 

Jess glanced over one shoulder. "What are you doing?" she asked, curious. 

John sighed and kissed her shoulder. "I think I'm protecting you," he said. "Sorry, it's kind of instinctive."

She shook her head. "We both really need to sleep," she said. 

The house was furnished in Scandinavian minimalism: lots of glass and open space, lots of natural materials in neutral shades. The bed was low and made up in a palette of greys with crisp edges and pristine pillows. Jess grabbed one corner of the woollen blanket and yanked hard until the whole thing was mussed. 

"No more hospital corners today," she said, and flopped down to kick off her work shoes. 

After a moment, John followed, shedding the clothes that Harold had had made for him, that fit a little too well for him to feel safe just yet, and he slipped between the sheets.

The blankets were heavy across his shoulders, and the sheets were clean and crisp against his legs. He lay on his side, head pillowed on an arm, and Jess stretched out long on the other side of the bed. There was a distance between them, though John could feel the warmth of her skin start to soften the chill of the sheets. He'd been so tired in the diner, so ready to close his eyes and sleep for days, but now, being this close to Jess, when things had gone so badly last time, he couldn't find that ability to let his mind stop working. He had been terrified of hurting her, and she had been able to flay him just with words. 

"Shh." Jess reached out to him, touched her fingertips to his eyelids. "I can hear you thinking from here. It's okay. We're okay. We don't have to be anything right now, either of us." 

He blinked, felt his eyelashes brush her skin, and he smiled. Her touch, his smile, it all felt tentative and fragile, tender like the first layers of skin healing after an injury. He didn't remember falling asleep, but when he woke, Jess slept in his arms and the bedclothes were warm and folded around them both. There was slackness in his muscles, the drowsy, easy feeling that comes after solid sleep. It had been a while since he'd had that. This room had a panel of glass that ran the height of the wall and up onto the ceiling. The sky outside was grey, a mix of clouds that moved idly against each other. When it started to rain, a gentle pat-pat of drops against the window, John let his eyelids dip. He shifted, rested his cheek against Jess's hair, and let himself drift back to sleep. 

It was Jess's phone that woke them both eventually: a soft chime in the stillness of the room. They'd both slept the day away, and in the evening dusk the pale neutrals of this weird modern house were cold and gloomy. 

John turned on a lamp and rolled to face her. "Is it Peter?" It was the first time he'd said the man's name to her since their argument, and it was strange how distant the concept of Jess's husband was now. 

"No, he's in the city." Jess pushed her hair out of her eyes while she checked her phone. "It's the alarm company," she said. She held it up for him to see. "They're querying a strange car parked in the drive." 

John stared at the rental car he and Kara had picked up at the airport yesterday, a lifetime ago, and he forgot to breathe. 

He had Jess drive him to the end of her street and let him out of the car. Before he closed the passenger door, he leaned inside to direct her back to Nathan's place. 

"Don't tell me what to do," she said, before he had even opened his mouth. "Okay, that came out wrong. I mean – I get that she's dangerous. I get that your work is crazy, and I'll stay out of your way. But you don't have to protect me from this, whatever it is. It's my house. She came to my house, John. My home." Jess was angry, but it was a frozen kind of anger. He'd never seen her like this: calm and icy cold with rage. 

He nodded. "Okay," he said, finally. "Don't go to the cops, you'll only get good officers killed. And if you can stay back until I've got her clear or disarmed, that would be… optimal." 

The front door was locked, but Jess gave him her key as well as the code to the alarm, though when John got to the panel, it was already disarmed. A trail of clothing led from the door down the hall, male and female. John recognised Kara's shoes; they'd lived out of each other's bags for long enough now to know each other's clothes. As he approached the door to what he presumed was the master suite, he heard muttered words and a low, male moan. 

"He's coming, don't worry. I know you can't wait to meet him, especially here." Kara sounded merry, that light and happy tone that she used when she'd brought a strategy to fruition.

The man's voice came again, high pitched with worry. 

"Jess will love this, I told you. We've done all this just for her, haven't we? Kara was cajoling now. "Stop worrying about her, and tell me how much you want to fuck my man." 

The man spoke, lower, more urgent, with a note of desperation. 

"I'm not convinced," Kara said, airy. "But you've been such an obedient boy so far. John's going to make you feel so good, he's gonna fuck you into that mattress so hard he'll make a dent in it."

The man moaned. 

John had a feeling of creeping horror and, weirdly, shame. He was responsible for whatever lay behind that door, by refusing to give up Jessica, by selfishly keeping her in his life. By doing that, he'd pulled Kara into the same orbit. He had no right to the shock and surprise he was feeling right now. He knew what Kara was capable of, he knew how much she thrived on chaos and power and secrets. 

He pushed the door slightly ajar, hoping for a moment to scan the room before Kara realised he was here, but there was no chance. Kara sensed the movement and pulled the door all the way open. For all the atmosphere reeked of sex and shame, she was dressed very normally, in neat business wear with her sidearm on her hip. 

"John!" she said, in a breathy exhalation. Her gaze was focused on him, with a hungry intensity he hadn't seen since his first meetings with her. She scanned his face, searching for emotional reactions, and as much as he tried not to give her anything, he knew his face was heating red with anger and shock. He had to close his eyes a moment, just to keep some of himself away from her. 

Kara wouldn't stand for that, of course. She towed him further into the room, no nails, all gentleness for now, so he could see the man splayed facedown on the bed. John had stalked Jess's social media enough to recognise the back of Peter's head, his ginger-blonde hair soaked with sweat. Kara had tied him to the wooden bedposts with the black nylon line she kept in her climbing kit. John had used that rope on missions. Kara had used it on him. 

"Isn't this wonderful?" Kara said. She stood behind John now, one hand across his belly, the other in his hair, ready to pull it hard if she sensed him looking away from the spectacle she had arranged for him. She'd stuffed Peter's ass with the enormous dildo, the bright pink one that had frightened the security officer at the airport. 

"Kara," John managed to say, hoarse and low. Startled by the new voice, Peter jerked in his bindings. 

"Shh," Kara said. "I brought John here for you, Peter, so hold that big boy in. You don't want to embarrass me, do you?" 

Face down on the pillow, Peter whimpered and clenched his ass, stopping the dildo from slipping out. This was obviously effortful and difficult, but Kara ignored him, leaning across to peer down the hallway instead. 

"You didn't bring her?" she whispered. "Why didn't you bring her? She'll love seeing him like this."

John turned his back on Peter, trying to find a way to process the situation. "Why?" he asked Kara, genuinely perplexed.

Kara put her hands on his forearm and drew him closer to the bed. "Why do I do anything? To give you want you want." She ruffled his hair, all affectionate gestures. "You always were bad at asking for things. You're lucky I'm so good at reading you. I can make this perfect for all of us." 

"How do you figure that?" John said. His heart was racing, and he was sure that she knew it, leaning against him like this, but he couldn't pull his mind together, couldn't get his feet under him. The only thing he could think to do was to keep her talking. Hopefully his brain would kick in, let him make a plan of some sort. 

"This is what you two get up to, isn't it? She likes to tie you up, she likes to fuck your ass." She stroked his neck with her long, cool fingers. "Well, I can't say I blame her for that. Still, I can't have her driving you to distraction with her dramas. It's going to get us both killed. So I made her a John of her own. This plays out in one of two ways: either Jessica figures out that she can get what she wants from this pathetic mess here and dumps you, or she finds out he's been cheating on her and dumps him so you don't have to worry about her anymore." Kara cocked her head to one side, mock-thoughtful. "Or we all fall into bed together and have a good time, but honestly, he's not worth the trouble." 

John glanced down at Peter, squirming a little in his confinement, obviously uncertain about the half-heard conversation going on above him. The idea that Kara had been setting this up for at least a year, courting Peter, working on his mind until he was convinced that this was a good idea, was surprisingly distressing to him. He may have been considering killing the man for what he had done – he might still have to kill him – but he'd have made it quick. Not this long drawn-out cruelty that was really nothing to do with him at all. 

Kara took John's chin and turned it to face her. "Are you feeling sorry for him? For this piece of shit? You do know he beats her?" Kara said, oozing scorn and wonder simultaneously. "He comes home, drinks a light beer then takes his petty miseries out on his wife." 

A surprised and muffled denial came from the pillow, and Kara put her palm on the end of the dildo, leaned her weight into it. The denial became a moan and then a wail. "I mean, I don't understand how you haven't killed this little piece of shit already?" 

"Jess cares for him," John said. Even he could hear his lack of conviction. Why had he not just taken Peter out? Why didn't he do it now? Considering where they both stood at this moment, it would save a lot of suffering on Jess's part. 

Kara's eyebrows shot upwards. "Really? I have to say that is not the reaction I expected from Mr White Knight Syndrome. Glad I never had to rely on you for a rescue. All that mooning over this girl, and you never actually stepped up to make her safe? I'd have put a bullet in him the moment I found out."

"I asked him not to," said Jess from the doorway. John and Kara both jumped, startled, and Kara drew her weapon. They'd been too caught up in Kara's game to hear Jess coming down the hall, but she stood there, framed in the doorway, her hair tousled and beaded with raindrops. "John respects me. You, as far as I can tell, don't respect anything.

Kara laughed, a short bark of delight.

"Jess!" John's mouth went dry, and he stepped into Kara's sightline so she'd have to shoot through him to hit Jess. "Get out of here." 

"Jess?" Peter's voice was thin and panicked. "This isn't… I mean. This isn't what it you think!" 

Kara sniggered, and patted Peter's ass possessively. "Can't wait to hear how you spin this one, boyfriend." 

"He doesn't have to," said Jess. She pushed past John and faced Kara with her fists clenched. "Whatever this is, it's nothing to do with me and Peter, and everything to do with you trying to make John into a psycho like you. Which you can't, by the way. So suck it up, and live your best lonely life." 

Her words hung in the crowded room, and John stood in the middle of it, arms outstretched, unsure who to reach for first. He was ready for Kara to retaliate, to strike out at Jess, put a bullet into someone. Instead, she laughed. 

"Oh, John, I wish I'd known she had this much fight in her. No wonder you can't let go." She reached out to touch Jess's hair, and John bunched his shoulders, ready to intervene.

Jess, though, had apparently let anger burn all her fear away and she slapped at Kara, pushing past her to the bedside. She crouched down, brushing the hair out of Peter's eyes. "It's okay, it's going to be okay." 

"Aw," Kara said, fondly. "That's sweet. Stupid, but sweet." 

"Go away," said Jess. She pulled at the first tie that was holding Peter's wrist. "Whatever you want out of this, you won't get from me. Kill me or him if you want, but it won't change what I think of you. Which is very little." 

John reached for Kara's hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's go." 

Kara pulled free. "No! Things are just getting interesting. I didn't know she was like this – I thought she was some sweet little farm girl, I thought she'd be a pushover. I think I get it now, why you kept going back." 

"Get out of my house," Jess said. "This is over." 

Kara made a moue. "Well, it's not really your house anymore." She patted Peter's ass possessively, then snatched her fingers away before Jess could swat her. "Isn't that right, Petey-boy? You're double mortgaged to the hilt." She turned to Jess. "But we can talk about that later. You're here. John's here. Peter's all ready for you to fuck him – I know that's what you like. I know that's what John likes." 

"Get out of my house," Jess repeated. "And I mean both of you. I don't want to see either of you ever again." 

She blamed him too. John should have seen that coming; it was his fault, after all. It still shocked him, enough that he tensed to take a step back from the heat of Jessica's anger. He didn't actually move – he had better control of himself in a crisis – but Kara saw it. He heard her snort softly to herself. 

Jess ignored them, turned her back on the two of them to loosen the knot on Peter's ankle, picking Kara's work apart with careful fingers. When she freed one leg, Peter curled over on his hip, and she pulled him to her side.

Kara wagged her eyebrows suggestively at John, sure of his distress now. "If I'd known she had this much spine, I'd have made my move in her direction instead." 

Jess straightened up and pointed a finger in Kara's direction. "In your dreams, bitch." 

Before John could react, Kara pulled Jess close, holding her along the length of her own body, cupping her hand under Jess's chin. She nuzzled her face into Jessica's hair, and John raised his gun. 

"Oh, honey," said Kara, and circled her other arm around Jess's waist, the gun pressed flat on her belly. "Don't be jealous." She spread her fingers along Jess's chin. All it would take was one little twist. John had seen her do it. 

"Please," said John. "Kara, please don't." He still held his gun, but there was no target here, no place he could hit that wouldn't hit Jess too. 

Meanwhile, Jess's eyes were on him, cold and calm. His stomach sank. An hour ago they had been curled up in bed together, sweet and vulnerable and desperately happy. 

Jess's mouth was a thin, straight line, but she didn't struggle or show any signs of panic, nothing that would excite Kara, or make it worth her while to snap her neck. Her ability to think under this pressure was startling to John, and he wondered if this was from working as a nurse, or living with Peter. He watched Peter trembling on the bed, and he thought for a moment how easy it would be just to finish it. Jess would never forgive him for what Kara had done here. What was the saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. 

"Let me give you the facts of life." Kara put her mouth up close to Jess's ear. "It doesn't matter how much therapy you do together, or how many times he apologises. One of these days he's going to kill you." 

"That's my problem," Jess said, staring directly at John. "And it's none of your business." 

Kara smoothed Jess's hair with her gun hand and smiled at John. "You know, I like her. I really like her. I see why she held your attention all this time." 

"Come on, Kara, let's go," said John, his mouth dry and his voice hoarse. "You've won this, you're holding all the cards here." His heart had been thumping fast for so long that he was starting to feel light-headed. He couldn't meet Jess's eyes anymore, and that made him want to puke. 

Kara kissed the top of Jess's head and released her grip. Jess staggered away a few steps then sensibly backed into the corner between the bed and the wall. 

"He's got my number in his phone," Kara said. "I think he hid it under the name of his salon. If you're ever worried, or you want me to finish him off for you, you should call." 

Jess said nothing. John knew her eyes were on him all the way down the hall. 

On the road, Kara leaned back in the passenger seat and roared with laughter. "That was priceless," she said, then lolled on her side to watch him. "I'm guessing it will be priceless for a long, long while, too." 

John drove, breathed, managed the traffic, and tried not to give Kara any more emotional fuel for her fire. 

Kara kept her gaze on him, her expression avid. "You're so angry," she said. "I promise you'll see the benefit, when you've had a chance to cool down. I've done a good thing for you, John." 

"Nothing in that room was for me," said John, and in his voice he heard a bitter ring of truth. "It was all about you, Kara. It always is." 

Beside him, Kara was a sudden blur of movement and then he heard a gunshot, felt the car lurch as he dragged the wheel to one side in instinctive reaction. On the road around them, traffic exploded into honks and screeches as their car veered through traffic. John breathed in gunpowder, hot and sulphurous. She'd put a hole in the driver's door, just above his thighs. 

"I could have put that in your girlfriend's pretty head," Kara said, conversational and calm. "I didn't want to – if anyone needs a bullet, it's that shithead she's married to – but it wouldn't have hurt me in the slightest to do it. And I will do it, John. If you ever go near her again, if you ever put her ahead of our missions, I'll spray her brains all over the satin-painted wall of that gingerbread house she lives in. Do you understand me?" 

"Yeah, I've got it." John was clammy with sweat, but he kept the wheel steady as he took the turnoff to the station. 

"What is this?" Kara looked around herself, confused. "Are we commuters all of a sudden?" 

John parked the car between two SUVs and got out. "You win. I'm finished," he said. "I'm done with Jess, I'm done with you, I'm done with the job. Tell Mark to go fuck himself." 

He walked away from the car, towards the ticket office and the platforms. In the reflection on the fenders of cars he passed, he watched Kara get out of the car and put her phone to her ear, but she didn't chase after him. That reminded him: he took his own phone from his pocket and dropped it into the next trashcan he passed. Then he disappeared into a crowd of people heading for the city-bound train.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan makes a final attempt to secure his friends' safety. John and Harold have to find a way to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more show-style dentistry in this chapter.

John spent the next week in New Jersey, moving from cheap motel to cheap motel, hitting the bottle harder each night, until the future was nothing more than a question of how to survive his hangover and where to get more booze. 

In the brief periods of sobriety, he supposed that eventually he'd end up begging for his job back, or take a chance on re-enlisting. That was all he managed before shame and fear and disappointment sent him to the liquor store to repeat the cycle. 

Fifty dollars got him a burner phone and enough data to check up on Jessica, to watch her Friendczar, Instagram, Angler. Her feeds were empty, though he saw the ghost of her presence from posts she'd liked, or polite, bland comments she left on people's birthday photos. 

He was in a grimy truckstop diner, shrugging off the past night's booze with a plate full of greasy food when Nathan's face flashed up on the small TV suspended above the counter. He didn't notice for a little while; he just let the burr of noise float over him while he pushed a piece of bacon through the eggs while his stomach churned and threatened to rebel. Then the rest of the diner went quiet, the rattle of plates and low conversation stopped, and he finally looked up to see what had happened. 

"I want everyone out there to pick up their phone. Look at your last text, your last photograph, your last web search, because the government certainly has." 

John put down his fork. "Shit," he said. "Nathan, what the hell?" 

"It started on September 11th," Nathan said, on the screen. "I wanted to help, I wanted to make sure that something like that never happened again. But I made a terrible mistake, and I need to tell you why."

All around John, people were doing as he said: holding their phones, checking their call lists and texts. He saw some take out their sim cards, and one man snapped his in half. 

"What the American public needs to understand is that we are being watched," Nathan was saying. "Every minute of every day. I know, because I helped them do it." On the screen, his expression was sombre, a disconnect from the vivid backdrop of the early morning talk show. The studio, along with the diner, was surprisingly silent. "They don't want anyone to know this. They've tried to kill anyone involved."

The host, his own face better known for jocularity, leaned forward over the desk. "And this is why we're broadcasting from an unknown location?" 

Nathan nodded. "They bombed the 34th Street Ferry Terminal to get at me," he said. He pointed to the scars across his cheek. "They don't care who they hurt in the process." 

John's stomach dropped. This was a bad gambit, this was too much bluff for Nathan to front. He might have been able to protect those few under his umbrella by keeping himself in the spotlight, but there was only so much the government would take. 

The host nodded understanding of this situation. "You're expecting another retaliation – something they can cover up, or write off as an accident or attack." 

"I expect we'll be cut off as soon as they can figure out where this is coming from, and then I'll never be seen again," Nathan said. "So I've put the data up online: names, dates, details of the program that runs my software." A web address scrolled across the screen. "That site will go down, but there will be others. Or you can find that link on my Twitter – please share it, please keep it moving from platform to platform. These are the people they've tried to kill. Their names are Daniel Aquino and Laurence Szilard." Their faces appeared on the backdrop. "If anything happens to them, you will know who was responsible." 

On the TV, Nathan leaned forward to face the camera. "I'll keep the link up as long as possible, and when it eventually goes down, I guarantee it will reappear. And of course, to the people who know how to keep these facts alive: it's called Northern Lights. Bring it into the sunshine. Uncover the…" The screen turned instantly to static, and a low murmur spread through the diner. 

John pulled out his burner phone and started calling. He was already making plans: get transport, find Nathan, get him out of the country. He tucked some bills under his plate, gave a nod of thanks to the waitress and went to check if there were any security cameras covering the parking lot before he boosted a car and sped towards the city. 

Nathan wasn't answering his phone, which John expected but had to check. He tried a few of the numbers he'd collected for Harold next. The first two ran out, but Harold picked up on the third, obviously realising that whoever was calling knew him well enough to have several of his numbers. 

"John," he said, his voice tight and angry and frightened, and then nothing else. There wasn't much else to say. 

"Do you know where he is?" John watched the speedometer climb. Nathan had to be somewhere close to Manhattan. It had only been – he glanced at the dash clock – seven hours since Nathan last tweeted or posted on Instagram. That didn't mean so much in the life of a billionaire who could hop on a plane, but even a plane needed a few hours to prep before take off. And why leave a city full of studios and production crews, why leave a small island crammed with seven million people to hide among? He sighed. To keep everyone else safe, that was why. That was the point of what Nathan was doing after all. 

"I have some ideas," Harold said. "How far out are you?" 

"Not far. Harold, they'll have given a termination order on Nathan," John said. Then as Harold sputtered into the phone, he said, "Not me. I resigned. But someone, and they'll be fast and brutal. You need to figure out a plan for him. Nathan has to disappear now. Properly. Will the others be safe?" 

Harold sighed. "To give him credit, he's planned this well. They're in hiding for now, I know he blames himself – well, both of us, and rightly so – for the danger the others are in. I just wish he'd chosen a less…ridiculously self-sacrificing method of dealing with his guilt." Those last words were frantic and angry again. 

"The others are safe. That's good. That buys me time. You can be angry at Nathan later when I've pulled his ass out of this," John said. He fumbled in his pocket for the earpiece that had come with the phone. "And Grace?" 

A second voice spoke on the line. "I'm with Harold, sweetheart. The library is off the grid, for all that means in the middle of the city, and we can hole up here for…" 

"For a few months," Harold said. "If we have to." 

"Really?" said Grace, immediately distracted. "Harold, do you have a bunker in here?" 

John grinned despite the situation. Grace's optimism was contagious. For a little while, he forgot that he'd been wearing the same clothes for a week, or that his brain was beginning to notice the absence of alcohol in his system. There'd be consequences for the last week, he knew, but right now he was in the middle of a mission and everything else could wait. 

He drove in silence for a good forty minutes, watching the miles tick down as he drew closer to Manhattan and considering his options for extracting Nathan. 

"I see you now," Harold said into the silence, after John passed under a huge overpass that he knew was fitted with cameras optimised for facial recognition. "And I have a location for Nathan. You'll want to avoid the city completely." 

The GPS on the dash lit up. "That's me," said Harold. "Next time steal a vehicle with fewer commercial tracking devices on board, if you want to stay covert." 

The GPS showed a location, a warehouse in White Plains. 

John took an off-ramp to change freeways, the better to avoid city-bound traffic. "It was this, or an eighteen wheeler with a dog in the cab." 

The line stayed quiet, but somehow accusatory. 

"I had to take some personal time," John said. I don't have to explain myself to you, he added silently. 

"Ms Arndt is well," Harold said. "I thought you'd like to know. She and her husband seem to have found a kind of détente. They're in counselling." 

_It doesn't matter how much therapy you do together, or how many times he apologises,_ Kara had said. John felt a thin prickle of sweat break out between his shoulder blades, because despite the fight he was going into right now, despite the risk to Nathan and himself, the thing that scared him the most was the sword of Damocles hanging over Jess's head, and how responsible John had been for fraying that rope. 

"Oh, Nathan," said Harold, suddenly. 

In John's car, the radio switched itself on, an eerie expression of Harold's presence, like a helpful ghost. John nudged up the volume and listened to the news report. 

_"…with an estimated personal value of four billion US dollars, Mr Ingram is just now being taken into protective custody at an undisclosed location in White Plains. He is expected to be charged with a number of offences under the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act."_

Harold's voice was silent on the phone line but John could hear him breathe in quick, panicked gasps. 

John could imagine what he was thinking: how vulnerable Nathan would be in prison, even in protective custody. Hopelessly exposed, difficult to protect, especially when the people coming for him didn't have to obey any law but their own. He glanced over his shoulder then cut sharply through traffic to leave the highway. He'd do better now on the back roads where he could speed without being chased by well-intentioned traffic cops. 

Then he spoke to Harold, calm and steady. Harold was his back-up now. If John was going to save Nathan, he needed Harold at his best. 

"It's not over, Harold, but my options narrow once he's in a cell. My best bet is to intercept the transport, but that's a short window of opportunity. I need you to find the vehicle he's in now. It will have a government GPS tracker in it, probably Homeland Security." 

He heard Harold take a deep breath, and then the soft tap of keys. "Where will they want to take him?" 

John had a short list, and all of them were out of state. "They're going to want him close to DC, and they won't risk driving all the way. Look at small airfields. Or hell, anywhere you can quickly put a chopper down. And check airspace, if you have access, get me a list of what's in the air right now." 

The typing was a steady rhythm now, the background purr of a drumroll as Harold gathered facts. 

"They arrested him at a local news studio. There's been an emergency landing organised at a nearby soccer field," Harold said, surprisingly quickly. "I'm you sending co-ordinates now, then I'll track down what I can from traffic cameras." 

John glanced at the screen to see a red line connecting the studio with the soccer field. There were a few points of vulnerability on the route, and he steered towards the one closest to the landing site. He went fast and steady, cutting neatly through morning traffic. The extraction team would be driving a heavy armoured SUV, difficult to breach but easy to unbalance. John mentally listed the best impact points to destabilise an armoured vehicle, and very soon after, Harold had a couple of blurry stills for him. 

He swung onto a narrow suburban road, and took a moment to examine the photos for make and model. 

"Thanks. No sense running the wrong car off the road," he said, for the pleasure of hearing Harold's appalled gasp. 

Harold did not disappoint. "What?" he said, his voice rising in pitch. 

John laughed softly. Even in this situation, on the run from the CIA, trying to save Nathan from the same agency, it was good to work with Harold. Harold was lightning fast with details, never tried to subvert John's work, and if he had a protest or problem, he stated it up front before it became a life-threatening issue. This was how it was supposed to be. He realised this was what he wanted to do, now that he knew it was possible. This was something for which he would be happy to risk his life.

"When we're done," he started to say, but Harold interrupted him. 

"Mr Reese, they've turned onto this road. They're sixty seconds away from you at your current speed," Harold said. Then, "Please be careful, John." 

John switched off his lights and made sure his seatbelt was locked in. He saw the halo of lights around a sweeping corner, and he adjusted his speed and angle, aiming for the crumple zone of the oncoming SUV. There were a couple of seconds past the point where he had committed to the collision, where time slowed down and he saw the projected orbit of each vehicle sliding into place. Adrenaline slows the perception of time, and even though he was calm and prepared, his body reacted to the perceived danger with a prickle of sweat and a rush of heat through his body. He rode it through, using those moments to prepare himself for the crash. He relaxed his shoulders, reminded himself that the airbag would flash in front of him, he made sure his arms were bent and ready to resume steering as soon as possible. The last things he saw before the impact were two horrified faces in the front seats. 

The impact itself was nothing unexpected. He'd done this plenty of times before and knew what to expect. There was the percussive thump against his ribcage which shoved all the air from his lungs, then the bloom of the airbag. He rode the impact out easily, felt the tires grip the road surface then slide. The two vehicles spun to one side as if partners in a square dance, then the SUV lost traction and rolled over twice. 

The SUV came to rest against a line of trees, bouncing lightly on all four wheels, and time snapped back into proper speed. John was out and moving before the other drivers had a chance to react. The air was cold in his mouth, and he tasted blood. He'd bit his lip on impact, he realised, as he ran up beside the SUV. 

Hot metal ticked and hissed all around him but nothing was on fire. Modern cars are pretty good at maintaining structural integrity during a high-impact collision, and the SUV was reinforced with bullet-proof glass and armored plating. John shot out the lock on the rear passenger door and prised it open. 

Inside, Nathan was folded into the footwell, his body pressed hard against the driver's seat, a black bag over his head. He'd done well to get himself safe, John thought, considering his hands were cuffed. 

Nathan tilted his head, still covered by the black bag, but obviously conscious and aware that someone was there. 

"It's me," John said. "Stay there till we're secure." 

Nathan coughed and moved in his direction. "John?" he said, wheezing through the bag. 

"Stay still." John made his voice authoritative: he didn't want Nathan to move until John could check if he was injured. 

He strode through the roadside brush to the front cab, pulled one of the mangled doors open jerkily and checked the pulse of the driver. She was alive but unconscious, pillowed against the airbag. He left her, but took her badge and weapon. These two were ostensibly FBI, but it was far from FBI protocol to black bag a prisoner. In the passenger side, the other agent had managed to draw his weapon, but John took it easily.

"Thank you," he said politely, then zip-tied the man to the steering wheel. 

Despite what John had said, Nathan was hauling himself free of the wreck. He had hauled off the black bag and used it to brush shattered glass from the back seat so he could wriggle free. "This is a hell of a rescue," he said, creakily manoeuvring his legs out. "Not that I'm complaining." 

John hurried over to help him, grabbing under his arms and easing him out. "Did you hit your head?" 

Nathan sagged against him. "Honestly John, I think I hit everything." He peered over John's shoulder into the darkness. "Is this your partner?" 

John was moving before Nathan had closed his mouth, but Kara had her gun drawn on them both already. Adrenaline flowed and time slowed down again, just as it had before the collision, but this time John felt far less assured about the outcome. It meant that when Kara walked out of the darkness, her stride seemed slow and languorous, like an actress taking the spotlight for her big speech. 

"Oh, John," she said. Time snapped back into perspective at the sound of her voice, a mix of disappointment and delight. "Didn't I teach you anything? Mark's going to be so surprised, but he shouldn't be. All this time and you're as predictable as ever." 

There was nothing else to say but her name. "Kara." John moved in front of Nathan, and Kara laughed, loud in the night air. 

"Look at you. So protective. You're adorable," Kara said. "This is even better than that thing you have with your ex. You know, maybe this is the real team-up you wanted – you should have brought her along. We could have had a foursome." She winked at John. "I know you've gone most of the way there, lover. It's only one more in the bed, after all."

John rolled his shoulder gently, bringing his hand closer to his hip holster. Kara knew that move, unfortunately, and she fired on him. Nathan gasped and ducked down in a crouch but John stood still. If Kara wanted him dead, she'd have killed him before she'd stepped into the light. No, she wanted something lengthy and involved. 

"Come on, Kara. Get it over with," he said, hoping she'd give him some indication of what her next move would be. His heart thumped, far more than it had when he'd steered into the oncoming SUV. He'd have to kill her. There was no other way. If she'd been given the kill order, if she tried to execute Nathan, John would have to take her out first and for many reasons, some he didn't understand himself, he didn't want to do that. 

Kara shifted her weight, and John realised she was torn: shoot Nathan now and complete her mission, or string it out and get maximum pleasure out of tormenting John. His mind raced, trying to find a solution that left Nathan and Kara alive. It had to be something she would value. There were only a limited number of things John had that Kara craved, and giving them up would hurt. 

He heard Nathan behind him, breathing hard, still crouched over in the brush. 

"I've got a deal," he said, as the plan formed in his mind. He didn't like it; it felt leaden in his mind, worse than what happened with Jess, worse even than the nothingness he'd been trying to achieve this past week. 

Kara took a step closer, near enough that John thought he could jump her before she took a shot at Nathan. "Tell me more," she said. "I can't imagine what you could offer me that is better than bringing in this one's head on a plate." 

"Let him go," John started, and waited for Kara's bark of laughter. When she'd finished, he continued, "And I'll come back in under your terms. And I'll owe you. A life. Mine if you want." 

Behind him, Nathan swore under his breath, and spoke. "John. I made my decisions. You don't have to pay for that." 

"Oh, he does, you moron," said Kara. "Haven't you figured it out yet? The thing about John is he likes the paying. He'll pay and pay for your stupid ideas." She stared at John, considering it. "I really do want to make this stupid man scream, John, but I could see myself making you scream instead." 

John lowered his eyes, looked at her through his eyelashes. "You do like to make me scream," he said. In his ear, Harold was thankfully silent. John didn't have the mental energy to cope with Harold's anxiety as well as ensuring Kara bought what John was selling. 

"John," Nathan said again. "Let her kill me, for God's sake. I'm not that important to the world anymore." 

Kara grinned at John, and John knew that she wouldn't leave it at that. Nathan had a son, an ex-wife, friends and family. All the people he'd helped, all the lives he'd saved. Kara would enjoy tearing all that down, and she'd make Nathan watch. 

"Shut up, Nathan," John said. "It's not just your life at stake here." Let me save you, he willed him to understand. The ugliness went much deeper than Nathan could imagine, and Kara was perfectly comfortable swimming around at those depths. 

In his ear, Harold finally spoke up. "I know what you're doing," he said. "I think I know you well enough by now to realise I can't talk you out of it, so I will promise you that it won't be in vain. I will make sure Nathan understands. And I will keep Jessica safe." 

John felt a shudder go through his body at that. Jessica was his last connection to normality, and letting go of the image of her hurt in ways he couldn't even comprehend yet. 

"She's going to be angry," he said out loud. 

"Yeah, I will," said Kara. "You love it when I'm angry, don't you, John?" 

Harold understood him, knew he was talking about Jessica. "I know. But she will be safe. I can promise you that much. Do you trust me to do that, John?" 

"I do," John said, and ignored Kara's little preen of triumph. "Nathan, get up. This is happening." 

Nathan awkwardly clambered to his feet. There were tears on his cheeks; he'd been crying silently down there on the ground. He opened his mouth to say something, but John gave a tiny shake of his head. 

"Just go," he said. "Someone will send a car." The sound of typing in his ear told him Harold was already organising it.

Kara wagged a finger at them and tsked, as if they were naughty children. "Oh, no, not yet," she said. 

"What else do you want, Kara?" John said, impatient, tired and ready for this to be done. "You've got me, you'll have me for as long as you want. Just let him go." 

"Come on, lover, this isn't your first rodeo. How do we get proof of death?" Kara reached inside her jacket and retrieved a pair of pliers. "A couple of molars, please. Unless you want Mark to come sniffing around?" 

John's heart sank. He didn't want to do this. She was right, but he didn't want to do this to Nathan. 

"Give them to me," said Nathan, holding out his hand. "You don't know pain till someone's scrubbed off your dying skin in a debriding tank." He took the pliers from Kara, and sat down in the brush, ignoring the mud soaking into his pants. 

To his credit, Nathan got one tooth loose enough to wiggle, and even then it was the awkward angle that stopped him, not the pain. Kara watched him, entertained for a while as, eyes streaming, he shoved those pliers into his mouth gamely in attempt after attempt. Eventually though, Kara got bored. 

"Finish it off, John," she said with a possessive wave. "My feet are getting cold."

John reached down for the pliers and Nathan surrendered them gratefully. Before John could get them into position, Nathan said, "It's okay, John. This is my fault. I'm sorry you have to do this." 

John's stomach flipped over and he thought, with a queasy realisation, that the apology made it somehow worse. Then he gripped Nathan's hair to hold him still and went to work. 

When it was done Nathan got to his feet, swayed and looked at his trembling fingers in dazed surprise. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, smeared along his jawline where it had gotten under John's wrist. John checked his own sleeve and saw a bright red stain on the cuff. 

"All right, enough fun," said Kara. "One last kiss for luck, and we'll be off. I can't wait to break the news to Mark that you're coming home." 

Nathan blinked and reached for John, wrapped his arms around him and squeezed. John didn't know how to react – to show emotion gave Kara leverage – but fortunately Nathan seemed to have everything under control. 

"I'll be fine," Nathan said, somewhat blurrily, into John's ear. "You look after yourself." Then he was leaving, but his hand brushed John's as he walked past, giving it one last squeeze before he had moved outside the circle of light cast by the crashed cars. 

Kara smirked and holstered her gun. "There. Now I have you all to myself." 

The last thing she made him do was shoot the other agents in the head.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark arrives in Morocco to reassign John and Kara, but neither of them feel comfortable with their new orders. Jessica makes contact with John, and he struggles to find a way to help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the last unpleasant act of dentistry. The last one, I promise. 
> 
> (Three more chapters to go! Eee, it's going so fast!)

Mark was jubilant, coasting high on his successes: snatching Nathan Ingram away from the intelligence community and bringing John back into the fold penitent and obliging.

"Let me tell you, they're chewing on their funeral shrouds back at the Pentagon," he said, practically rubbing his hands together. 

It didn't seem to matter that they hadn't gotten any information from Ingram before his purported execution. 

"We'll get more out of leveraging what they think we know than we ever would from actual intel." Mark passed folders to them. "Meanwhile, I'm sending you two off to Morocco, get yourselves back in the game. Get some sun, complete a relatively simple mission, drink some mint tea and get a tan. It's the closest you guys will ever get to a holiday, but Kara's earned it for the two of you." 

Beside John, Kara preened, and dug her nails into John's wrist. 

John dozed on the flight to Tangier, the first sleep he'd been able to catch since Kara had let Nathan go free. She'd made John bury the two fake FBI agents he'd shot.

"They'll buy the story if you're covered in dirt when we come in," she said, from her perch on the hood of the rental car. "Authenticity is everything, after all." 

As he dug, John wondered who they were, what agency had really sent them, if they had families who would always wonder where they had gone. When he hefted the two bodies into the pit, he thought of Dillinger's grave and how it seemed like an impossibly long time ago that he had buried him. In reality, it had been less than eight days. John tried not to think about the weird camaraderie that had existed between him and Harold that night, but the juxtaposition of the two events made it impossible.

That night, cuffed to Kara's bed, he wondered at the difference between being tied up by Jess and tied up by Kara. Above him, lost in her own world of pleasure, Kara rocked back and forth on his cock. John wasn't in pain, and this wasn't even unpleasant, exactly, but it was so vastly different to being dominated by Jessica and examining that difference was a good diversion. 

Kara worked herself towards an orgasm, shifting in minute movements against him, and watching her, John realised that the difference was joy. Jessica fucked him with a joyous abandon, but for Kara, it was some kind of competition. 

"Come on, John. Don't just lie there. If I wanted to fuck a corpse I'd put a bullet in you." Kara reached behind her and gave John's balls a painful twist, then laughed as he bucked underneath her, hissing with pain. "God. Look at you. You hate this so much." 

John didn't shut his eyes – Kara hated it when he shut his eyes – but he let his mind drift while his body did what it had to. He couldn't think of Nathan that way anymore, and Jess's face brought too much guilt to the forefront of his mind, so he idly imagined fucking around with Harold. It was enough of a novelty to spark his imagination: those fancy suits, that fastidious way he carried himself, the brightness of his eyes behind those glasses and how he didn't miss a single detail. He'd put that intense focus into fucking, John thought, and those hands would be precise and determined, stroking his cock, watching for his pleasure.

"Well," Kara said, as John moaned and thrust into her with more fervour. "I should grab those bad boys more often, if this is how you reward me." 

She was so pleased, she let him come inside her, even if she made him eat her out afterwards. 

Morocco was warm, and despite the situation, it did ease some of the aches in John's body. New York seemed a long way distant, cold and ice-blue compared to the bright colours and clamour of Tangier. John moved through the city on automatic, feeling like a stranger inside his own body, following orders without much consideration for the consequences. There was a numbness in knowing that this was his life now, and would be until Kara got bored with his existence. 

There was no way to ameliorate the evil that he was asked to do now, not with Kara doting on every second of suffering it inflicted on him and the victim, and so, to survive, he switched off. He couldn't kill himself. Kara had explained in detail that if he ate a bullet, she'd go and find Jessica, and make sure her life was more of a misery than it already was. She was equally specific on dying in the field. The only person allowed to kill John was Kara, so he'd better make sure he made it home after each mission. 

He still had the IFT news aggregator app on his phone, and it slowly gathered intel for him on Nathan Ingram's supposed death. The car carrying him and the arresting agents had tragically crashed, leaving all three people on board dead. Social media screamed conspiracy – and they were right, but not in the way they suspected – and IFT simultaneously put out an obituary and an official notice separating the company from Ingram's actions.

He read reports from the funeral, with photographs of mourners and pall-bearers. Harold was there with Nathan's ex-wife, the two of them sandwiching Nathan's son between them. John watched the boy, curious to know what he'd been told. He seemed grief-stricken. Nathan's ex, less so, but then John didn't know so much about their relationship. Nathan hadn't talked much about her, apart from admitting the marriage breakdown was his fault. 

There was a puzzling link to IFT's newest audiobook app, to which John could see no relevance. He sent the article to trash, only to find it back again in the morning. This went on for a few days until he finally relented and installed the app on his phone. When he opened it, he found that it had come preloaded with Jane Austen's _Persuasion_. 

"Who's doing the persuading?" he said to the app, but it made him smile. 

The next time he went out for a run along the water, he plugged in some earbuds and switched the app on. 

"I apologise for the book choice," Harold said in his ear. "I didn't have the chance to find out about your reading preferences, and Ms Arndt said that the two of you didn't really have time for reading." John could hear a smile in Harold's voice. "I think she was trying to shock me." 

John laughed softly as he ran. He could imagine how that went down. Still, knowing that Harold and Jessica had been conversing gave him a sense of stability. There was a reason to all of this, and Harold had been true to his word. 

"I should assure you that if anyone other than yourself opens this app, they will find you deep in the world of Anne Elliot. They can make of that what they wish, though if for veracity or interest you do want to listen to the book itself, you can access it through the bookmarks." 

John had to stop then and load the actual book, just to see if Harold had gone so far as to record a whole book, but the narrator was a woman with an English accent. He listened for a minute or two, then changed back to the recording of Harold's voice.

"Nathan is recovering from his involuntary dental procedure," Harold said, as John ran on, dodging the construction crews that were constantly remodelling the beachfront in Tangier. "He is doing better than I expected with life in isolation, though I don't think his patience for it will last forever. For the present, he has been quite shocked by what happened that night, and the greater ramifications of his actions. There are court cases in motion. The government is trying to strip IFT of its defence contracts, and there's a chance Will may lose much of his inheritance." Harold paused a moment. "I do understand what Nathan was aiming for in making that broadcast, but I can't agree with his decision to take such a risk without considering the opinions of the other people involved. And of course, the personal cost to you has been excessive. I know he has a great deal of regret about the harm you may come to because of what happened on that road." 

John was surprised to have reached the end of his run already. He walked in a circle, hands on his hips while his breathing regulated, then he started to warm down. 

"I would like to say thank you," Harold continued in John's ear. "For protecting Nathan – and before you claim that it was a poor sort of protection, I want you to consider that he is alive now because of your actions."

John closed his mouth. Harold wasn't here, but he was doing a frightening job of predicting John's behaviour.

"You should be winding up your run now, and no, I am not prescient or using technology to spy on you. Much as it would make for a pleasant view, I don't retask satellites as lightly as that." 

John had to pause the app and re-listen to that part of the recording again. He wasn't sure, but it seemed that in between denying he had magical powers, and admitting he could hack satellites, Harold had made a gentle pass at him. 

"…it is in fact a matter using the GPS function on your phone and averaging the distance," Harold was saying into his ear. "I'll talk to you again tomorrow, John. Please take care."

It made for a strange oasis of calm, but it served John well through the rest of the day, and that night when Kara went back to her own room, he did listen to the actual book. He wasn't sure that he was an Austen fan, but the lacuna of quiet reading helped him sleep better through the night. 

The two of them were working out of an abandoned prison, and they received their subject, blackbagged and sedated, from a rendition team the day after they arrived. A few days later, interrogation of the subject was going nowhere, to the point that Kara had tired of making John hurt the subject and had taken it upon herself to make him speak. John waited outside the interview room with one eye on the screen and one on his phone, checking the news feed for articles on New Rochelle or IFT or any of the topics Harold used to direct his attention. Inside, the subject screamed again. John closed his eyes and thought back to this morning.

On his run, Harold had told him about the house in which Nathan was living, and how Nathan had decided to teach himself to paint. 

"Grace is appalled at the idea," Harold said. "She said that the great masters hadn't suffered starvation and penury so that rich dilettantes on enforced vacations could call themselves artists. I know she is the one with the MFA from Yale, and I am no expert, but I believe that dilettantes have done precisely that for centuries." 

These one-sided discussions showed up each morning on his phone, and each morning, John found they left a place in his mind untouched by the interrogation or by Kara's persistent need to fuck with him. Harold talked about all sorts of things: cryptocurrency, architecture, his feelings on the musical Tommy, where he'd eaten the night before, the effects of climate change on wine production. None of it was important, except in so far as it gave John a connection to someone outside of his own small, violent world. Harold made sure to mention Jessica at least every other day, and for that peace of mind, John was grateful. 

Their subject continued to resist their methods. Mark berated them over the phone, frustrated with their lack of progress. 

"Come on, guys," he said, his voice crackly on the encrypted line. "Don't eat up the good will you earned from the Ingram execution. You came out of that smelling like roses, which, after the heap of shit you dragged in from the Daniel Casey situation, was a fucking miracle." 

Kara took great offense at this criticism. She didn't let it affect her work – her focus with a prisoner was always absolute – but she fretted whenever they had down time, picking at John, at her own performance, at Mark's perceived expectations. 

"Calm down," John said, late that night. "We can't do anything else but keep working until the guy talks. It's no use if we kill him." 

Kara stalked up and down beside their foldout bed. "I'll kill him when I'm good and ready to kill him," she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. 

John caught her hand and put it on his throat. "I know," he said. "You're the expert here. Mark should watch and learn." 

Kara closed her fingers around his neck, squeezing down on the carotid arteries. John sat still for her as the blood started to pool in his head with a thumping ache. When his vision started to go black, he swept her grip aside and threw her down on the bed. He caught the slap she swung at him with one arm, but missed the punch. Kara laughed in delight, and the fight went on into the night until she finally fell asleep. 

The next morning, John woke with the headache and red blotchy eyes that come from blacking out too many times in succession. His lip was swollen fat and scabbed over where it had split, and wouldn't that make today's interrogation an interesting prospect? He pushed his fingertips into his eye sockets for a few minutes, thought longingly of rolling back under the covers and never getting out, then pushed himself upright. On the way to the beachfront for his run, he stopped at a café to buy a bag of ice for his face. Once the corner of his mouth was suitably numbed, John put in his ear buds and started his run. Harold's letter, as John had started to think of the messages, would get him through the day again. 

"It's strange working the numbers without Nathan," Harold said, after a perfunctory greeting of "Good morning, Mr Reese." John found the energy for a grin despite the pain in his lip, twitched the volume up a notch and relaxed into his run, finding his pace quickly. 

"Nathan and I do communicate, of course, and he has all sorts of suggestions, some of which are absurd and some of which are helpful. Still, when you consider the loss of Mr Dillinger and Nathan, I am lacking able-bodied people in the field. Grace, as you know, is very innovative when it comes to convincing people to let us help them, but there's only so much the two of us can do alone. Still, we persist. One of my identities has hired a number of excellent bodyguards. We'll see how that improves the situation."

John ran, lost in Harold's words and the rhythmic thump of his feet on the walkway. He doubted that the bodyguards were as good as Harold believed; it was easy to fake competence enough to fool a civilian. Dillinger was a prime example. 

"Jessica is away for the week," Harold went on. "After some time with a marriage counsellor, she and Peter are taking a trip to a cabin in Vermont. I feel a little uncomfortable with her being so far from home, but at the same time, smothering her will do as much harm as neglect. And she has promised to call me if there are… problems. We spoke frankly about it before she left – yes, that was as uncomfortable as you can imagine it to be – and she told me that she and you discussed some other options for the future. I know you well enough by now to imagine you think those options closed off now. They are not, Mr Reese. There will come an opportunity for you to free yourself from your commitments to Ms Stanton and the CIA. Bear that in mind, as much as you are able." 

John found he had stopped running – was standing in the middle of the strand listening to what Harold had said. His skin prickled with impossible cold at the idea of Jess alone with Peter in the middle of nowhere. Sweat dripped into his eyes, making them sting, and he turned the recording off, swiped across his brow. He cut his run short – his concentration was shot, anyway – and as soon as he could get a safe break, he'd call Harold, talk to him about his worries, ask him to make sure he kept in contact with Jess while she was away from home and cut off from her support networks.

Kara met him in the parking lot of the abandoned jail. Clouds cast shadows over the open space, scudding past the two of them. John's ears popped as the air pressure fell. It would rain soon. 

"I was just coming to find you," Kara said. She flared her nostrils at the sight of him, plastered with sweat and obviously agitated. John thought for a moment she was going to drag him off to the cell they were using as a bedroom, but she shook her head in irritation. "Mark's gonna love this look on you, John." 

A fresh wave of gooseflesh spread down his back. "Mark's here?" 

Kara's expression was sour. "Showed up after you left, him and his little friend." 

Inside, Mark lolled against the desk with the monitors. Beside him was a woman John recognised vaguely, someone he knew was high up in the NSA. 

"This is Alicia Corwin," Mark said. "She's got a mission for you." 

Kara gave Alicia a saccharine smile that the woman ignored. "But we already have a mission, don't we, Mark?" 

Mark shook his head. "This takes priority. This is your last day – get the intel now, then consider yourself reassigned." 

They were being sent to China, some industry town in Inner Mongolia, to reacquire or destroy stolen software. It was urgent, according to Corwin. John felt her gaze on him, kept his expression still and disinterested. The last thing he wanted was to attract her attention. 

"One more thing, John." Mark gestured John closer with his head, and John stepped into the shadows with him. "We've got evidence Stanton's been dealing with Hezbollah – we've traced the payments to off-shore accounts. She's compromised. And you should have noticed. Look, I don't blame you, I've seen the way she's been treating you since you came back in." 

"What do you expect me to do about it?" John said. This was dirty, he could feel it. Whatever Mark was driving this conversation towards, he wanted John to be grateful and appreciative. The dark, warm air was claustrophobic, there was so much wrong here. Every nerve screamed at him to run, run, get out of this hell. Go find Jess and get to a safe place. 

Mark watched him in silence for a few seconds. "You know what you have to do. Stanton has to be retired. Complete the mission, put her in the ground, and come back home. We'll find you a new partner, someone you can rely on. Someone who won't to stab you in the back for a laugh." 

Well, John could see why Mark thought he would be grateful. Somehow, though, he doubted that his life would be as rosy as Mark promised when John returned to the States. 

While Kara took the last few hours she could to squeeze information out of their subject, he took the risk of swapping out his sim, hoping to call Harold while everyone was occupied. He checked the monitors: Kara was leaning in close to the man, her fingers moving quick and cruel. Mark and Alicia were smoking in the parking lot, talking, their faces obscured by hair and smoke so that nobody could read their conversation. Before he could dial out, though, he saw a notification that the voice mail he used for Jessica had a message waiting. John logged into his message bank with numb fingers. 

"It's me," Jess said. John bristled, it was clear she'd been crying. 

"I spoke to Harold. He told me some of what happened with Nathan. What you did." There was a long pause on the line, and he could hear her breathing in little hiccupping gasps. "God, I had this call all planned out," she said, trying to get her voice under control. "I, uh, I just wanted to hear your voice, you know? So that if bad stuff happens, we both have something better as our last memory." She sighed. "Things here are… things are weird. I don't know how to explain it. It feels like just before a fire catches, like we're all waiting for it to start. Maybe this is the change Peter and I had to go through. Maybe it means we'll finally be good together. If not, then I just wanted to say…" She was crying again. "I wanted to say that you did right with Nathan. You never give up on people, and I love that about you. Be safe." Then she was gone. 

John stared at the phone, panic rising in his gut. Jess was not okay. He had to call Harold now. For a moment, he didn't know what to do or which way to turn, then he realised that Kara was heading for the door. Behind her, the man in the chair lolled in his restraints, his head hanging. John had a few seconds to school his expression before the door to the interview room flew open, and Kara stormed out. 

"That stubborn fuck has passed out again. Do we have any adrenaline left in the kit?" There was a little spray of blood across her cheek. 

"Probably," John said, and opened the case to get it for her, since her hands were dripping red. His fingers fumbled with the clasp, and he forced himself to calm down, pushed the image of Jess from his mind so he could concentrate. He had to stay clear and focused now. If Kara got a whiff of this, if she suspected for a moment that he had been in communication with Jess, the deal would be off and Jess would be as good as dead anyway. 

It was twilight by the time he could sneak off to the roof. The air was thick and humid, and heat radiated from every surface as he dialled one of the numbers he had collected for Harold over the months. 

It only rang twice before it was picked up. "Yes?" Harold's voice was carefully non-committal, giving nothing away to this unknown number. 

"It's me," said John. 

"Mr Reese. What's happened?" Harold knew better than to assume this was a social call. John wouldn't be taking this risk for anything less than life-threatening circumstances. 

John turned in a circle, taking in the scrubby landscape while he ordered his words. "I had a call from Jess, and she's not okay. You need to go to Vermont." 

Harold sounded surprised. "But I've spoken with Ms Arndt every day this week, and there's been no indication that…" 

"Then she doesn't trust you, Finch!" John said. Frustration seethed through him. "If she sounds all right to you, she's faking it. Please. Don't leave her alone up there. I can't go. You have to." 

He heard the rattle of a keyboard. "Very well," Harold said, as easy as that. "I'm booking a flight right now. I will do my best to keep in touch." Before he hung up the call, he added, "I'll do everything I can to keep her safe. Please do the same for yourself, John." 

John's nausea abated, and the tightness in his chest eased. Harold believed him, despite the evidence. Harold trusted him. Harold would make sure that Jessica had protection and support if she needed it. 

He sat suddenly on the rusted casing of an old air conditioner, and stared at his upturned palms on his thighs. They shook a little with the aftereffects of the adrenaline required to make that call to Harold. It was okay to ask for help, he told himself. He couldn't expect Jessica to accept help, if he wasn't prepared to do the same. And whatever the situation, Harold would do his best to make sure Jessica was safe. John believed that implicitly, with the ease of a truth he felt bone-deep. As he left the roof, large raindrops started to fall, kicking up haloes of dust where they hit the roof. 

Still, hours later as he packed for China, he had to quash the edginess crawling all over his body. Outside, a thunderstorm lit up the sky and the rain was a now constant roar. He'd buried their subject this afternoon, while the clouds grew heavy and low. 

"This is bullshit," Kara said, stuffing clothes into her case. "And what was Mark whispering to you about? Are you keeping secrets from me, John?" She wheeled on him, and he saw the glint of a knife in her hand. 

"You already know my secrets, Kara," he said. "That's how you hold all the cards, isn't it?" 

Kara tucked the knife into a scabbard on her thigh. "Don't you forget it," she said. 

The problem with China was that it was huge, and Ordos, the industrial city to which they'd been sent, was too remote and too secretive to approach directly. John and Kara landed in Beijing with a long list of flight transfers and train timetables before they even set foot in Inner Mongolia. Travel had not gone well: they'd been delayed in Hong Kong, their flight to Beijing had to make an emergency landing due to electrical malfunction, and all the while, John had the creeping feeling that this mission was cursed. He watched Kara in Hong Kong, thought about how it would be to put a bullet in her, and felt doubt bloom. All the horrible acts he'd completed, all the pain he'd caused side by side with Kara, and now he started to doubt? It was ridiculous. 

Mark had given them new, supposedly secure phones before they left, and they were obviously effective, since no IFT software had yet shown up on John's handset. The paranoia between John and Kara was so great that while neither of them trusted their shiny new gear, neither of them could leave the other for long enough to go buy a burner. In that environment, there was no way John would imperil any of Harold's identities, not with Nathan's supposed death putting his associates under extra scrutiny. Jess would be okay, he told himself. Harold would do as he promised. All John had to do was get the mission done. 

This was easier said than done. Even if the mission wasn't a set-up for John to terminate Kara, chances were he and Kara would tear each other to pieces before they ever set foot in Ordos. Kara took her misery out on John, and John took his misery out on a bottle, so by the time they entered China, he was bruised and nursing a constant hangover. This and the stress of travelling under cover left them both snappish and exhausted at the airport, which was very bad this early in a mission. 

John hoisted his bag and had a brief argument with Kara about all of her luggage – she said it wasn't her fault, she needed cosmetics and clothes to fuck people so they could get travel documents and visas, whereas all he needed was a strong pair of knees – then they hauled themselves to the departure gate for Tianjin. 

"Fuck this," said Kara, eying the list of cancellations, which included their flight. "We need to get moving faster or we'll be stuck outside Chifeng for months waiting for it to thaw. And I will have to fillet you and eat you raw." 

John shrugged, ignoring the clench of his stomach, even though she was mostly joking. "If you think you can do better than Mark, I am fully prepared to support you." Even if he decided to refuse the order, he didn't relish hiking through sub-zero temperatures to escape the agency, either. 

"Mark is doing this from an office chair, the fuck does he know?" Kara freshened up her lipstick, straightened her hair, and, now businesswoman-crisp, went to work, all the while keeping John in eyeshot. 

John slumped down in his seat, gently aware of movement around him, picking up on conversations in different languages. Someone was reading a newspaper behind him; he heard it rustle as it was unfolded. 

"Mr Reese, I'm sorry to appear like this without warning." It was Harold's voice, calm and quiet amidst the chaos of Beijing International. 

John didn't react, thanks to training and long practice, but his heart hiccupped into clenching, stomach-dropping pain. "Jess," he said, and it was half a question, half a prayer. He watched Kara lean on the counter and joke with the clerk, and he forgot to breathe. He should have listened to his gut, he should have... He didn't know what he should have done, but this wasn't it. There were black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Jess was dead, he knew it. His stupid loyalty to this corrupt agency had gotten her killed. 

"Jessica is fine," Harold said.

John rocked back in his seat, felt air rush into his lungs, felt the pulse in his head thump in time with his rocketing heart. He'd only ever flown at ultra high altitude once, on a hideous transport across the Arctic Circle in some highly classified plane made of tissue paper and spit. He'd spent the flight trying to stop his stomach escaping via his throat. This was a similar sensation. 

"Did he hurt her? Is she okay? What happened, Harold?" John was as close as he could get to breaking cover, turning around and shaking answers out of Harold. 

Harold didn't answer this onslaught. John heard the pages of the newspaper turn, and that was all. 

He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temple with two fingers. When he opened them again, he saw Kara at the counter watching him. She gave him a questioning gesture. John rubbed his chin, their pre-determined signal that he was fine. She narrowed her eyes but she went back to flirting with the clerk behind the counter. John made sure to keep his gaze firmly on Kara.

Harold turned the page of his newspaper with an audible crackle. "I think the details are for Jessica to divulge. I can assure you that she's safe, and that she has promised to stay in the city until I get home from my business trip. Right now, it's you I need to talk to."

"Talk to me about what?" he said, voice low, fingers still over his mouth to hide the movement. Whatever had happened to Jess, it hadn't escaped his notice that Harold no longer called Jess 'Ms Arndt'. 

"You are being sent to Ordos," Harold said. "To retrieve stolen hardware. You've been ordered to execute Ms Stanton. She had been given orders to execute you. They're using you, John. They are sacrificing the two of you to cover up their mistakes." 

From the booking desk, Kara gave him a surreptitious smirk, and he raised his eyebrows to show he was impressed with her negotiating skills. "If that's even true, what am I supposed to do with that information?" he asked Harold, surprisingly calm despite this revelation. Kara would do it. Even as angry as she was right now, she'd have no qualms. "If I go AWOL, they'll only send someone to finish the job." Probably Kara, he thought. She'd definitely volunteer. 

For the first time, he heard frustration in Harold's voice. "I suppose you could consider not killing Ms Stanton, perhaps acting to preserve your own life. It's only fair to extend the same expectation to you that we have to Jessica, after all." 

John frowned. "It's not the same at all," he said. 

Harold sighed. "I don't imagine you'll see it that way, no. Unfortunately, as things stand, I don't have the luxury of time to change your mind." 

"Why would they need to eliminate both of us?" John said. "It doesn't make sense." He was trying to see an alternative to this mission, but it was evasive. There had to be an answer. He couldn't just walk up to Kara and suggest they both defect. 

He heard the soft beep of a phone, and then Mark's voice coming at low volume, barely audible even in the space between John and Harold's bodies. 

"I'm sorry you're saddled with him," Mark said. "I can see you're struggling." 

"Well," said Kara on the recording, sounding almost fond. "Polishing John into a civilised person has been always been a labour of love for me, Mark." 

"Oh, I've seen that. But I'm afraid the agency's patience is at an end. John's a liability. I don't want to see him drag you down, so I'm giving the execution order." 

There was a silence, and John could easily imagine Kara's nonplussed expression. Then she laughed. "And just when he was starting to get interesting." 

"It's him or you, Kara," Mark said, sounding bored. "Frankly, I'd rather have you on my team than that sadsack." 

The recording beeped off, and John sat there, elbows resting on his knees. Kara didn't agree with Mark, he could tell that from the tone of her voice. He knew her better than most people, and he could tell she was well aware she was being played. Still, John had no doubt that Kara would kill him to protect herself. She might even kill him just to see what happened next. 

Could he stop, he wondered. He considered options. Could he and Kara get through the mission without executing each other? Subvert the mission, get it done well enough that the termination order was rescinded? They'd surely still be looking over their shoulders for the rest of their career, and sooner or later, they'd slip up and die. 

Alternatively, if Kara could pull off his execution, if she could do that and make it back to the agency, he had no doubt she would leverage that into bettering her career: a promotion, a cushy posting of some sort. Whereas John would feel like shit, spend as much time beating himself up as he did watching his own back, and would sooner rather than later walk into a bullet. 

It was an odd analysis, given the deal he'd made with Kara. He hadn't expected to live long past this year, and he wasn't sure he wanted to, either. As soon as he was certain Jessica was safe, really safe and free from that man, there wouldn't be much else left for John. They could never have the life Jessica wanted, not after what John had done. 

John had seen a freight train crash on the tundra in Siberia, a long and icy track that ran in a straight line for miles, let the trains build up huge speed despite the loads they pulled. For a disturbingly long time after the impact, the freight cars kept coming at speed, sending repeated shockwaves up the line of the wreck until it shook itself to pieces. He'd been doing terrible things for a decade now, and suddenly, faced with the end of it all, he recognised the juddering in the tracks. 

Harold had sat quietly all this time, occasionally turning a page of his newspaper. Eventually, though, it was clear that Kara was winding up her negotiations. John's posture changed in his chair, and in response, Harold spoke. 

"I understand that you have a strong sense of duty. I know that it goes against the grain for you to consider not fulfilling this mission. Personally, I would prefer you try to extricate yourself," he said. "If only for selfish reasons: I enjoyed working with you very much, and your skills would enable us to save many more lives than Nathan and I ever managed." 

"Work for you?" John felt a laugh build inside him, a bitter little bark of humour and cynicism, and had to suppress it, or Kara would have questions. He couldn't work for Harold. That was make-believe, as unreal as the fantasies he'd allowed himself while he was in Kara's bed. "I can't work for you." 

At the booking counter, Kara took an envelope of boarding passes from the clerk, exchanged it for an envelope John knew contained a couple of hundred dollars. 

"We all need a job, Mr Reese. Or at least a purpose. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for the way our country has treated you." John expected Harold to sound angry, but in fact his voice was gentle. "I have a plane prepping to fly to Hong Kong, and I'll be leaving this evening. You would be very welcome to join me, John. Whatever you decide, I hope to see you again." Then John heard him fold the newspaper into neat segments, stand, and walk slowly away. He was horrified to find himself leaning forward, getting ready to stand and follow Harold, to say something like, "Wait! Don't go!" Then Kara was walking back towards their seats, and he pushed that reaction down as far as it could go. 

"Look!" she said, brandishing boarding passes for a private charter to Hohhot. "Got us tickets on a cargo plane!" She could barely conceal her triumph.

John stood, kissed her on the cheek like the dutiful husband he was supposed to be playing. "Good for you, darling," he said. Then, down low, he said, "We need to talk, Kara." 

Neither of them trusted the airport hotels – the Chinese intel community used them to generate blackmail material, and it was nearly impossible to find one without cameras – and in any case, John wasn't sure he wanted to be alone in a hotel room with Kara when he broke this news. The best place they could come up with in the busy airport was a baby change room in one of the food courts. Kara locked the door and turned to scowl at John. 

"They want me to terminate you," he said. "I'm not going to do it." 

The moment he said the word "terminate" Kara drew on him, and in automatic response he on her. 

"What I can't figure out is why they'd give us the same orders. If we're both supposed to execute the other, then…" He gave a little shrug to indicate his confusion. 

Kara rolled her eyes, but didn't drop her weapon. "Then they finish off the one that walks out, you idiot. They're cleaning house." 

John let out a breath. Kara always accepted unpleasant truths better when she could demonstrate her cleverness to John. "I guess you have ask yourself who you hate more: me or the agency," he said. 

Kara's laugh was bitter. "I never hated you, John. Can you imagine how long you would have lasted if I really hated you?" She reached out to touch his face, and when he flinched, she caught him by the throat. She kissed him, her mouth hard and angry against his. 

"I don't want to kill you," he said, against her lips. Then, because the danger seemed to have passed, he gave a little shrug and a smile. "I don't want you to kill me either." 

She pushed him away with an exasperated hiss, holstered her weapon and prowled the tiny change room. "They won't let us walk free from this. They want two dead agents." 

"Can't kill us if they can't find us," John said. 

Kara's gaze was withering. "You really want to live on the run, John?" 

"I want to live," John said simply, because suddenly it was true. He wasn't afraid of death; he understood he'd be taking a bullet eventually, but after talking to Harold, he realised that it should mean something. He shouldn't be thrown away to cover up embarrassing mistakes, neither of them should. He could see Kara understood that. She valued herself and her abilities more than the agency's good name. This wasn't about loyalty anymore. 

"I really want to shove those words down Mark's throat," Kara said. "That asshole, he's probably so smug about how he played us." 

They stared at each other, and for a moment John thought that he'd miraculously, unexpectedly gotten away with it. Then she shot him in the belly. 

The impact threw him backwards, his body folding instinctively around the wound, which left his back vulnerable to the sharp kick Kara delivered to his kidney. He came up punching, despite the pain and the cold thumping chill spreading through his body. It wasn't enough though, and too slow: Kara caught his fist and pinned him to the wall with it, then forced him to his knees. He was headed down there anyway. Shock and blood loss was starting to kick in. 

Kara kicked his gun to the other side of the room and holstered her own. "I was always going to win this one, John, admit it." 

John threw himself at her, but his vision was greying out, and his arms were huge and heavy. He passed out, leaning against her body. 

A sharp, bone-deep pain woke him, his mouth full of blood, running down his throat and choking him. He gagged on it and Kara's fist caught him across the temple. Blood loss and pain made his thoughts leaden, and he couldn't understand what she was doing. Why kill him like this when she could just put a bullet in his head? 

Kara straddled him, fingers gripping his chin, holding him steady while she shoved a pair of pliers into his mouth, and then he understood. 

"Hold still, you moron!" she said as the pliers rattled against his teeth. "I'm doing this for you too. It'll give me currency with the brass but it'll buy you a chance to disappear." 

John's eyes streamed as she got hold of his other molar and started to wiggle it from side to side. When it finally let go and slipped free, his vision filled with stars and glowing lights surrounding Kara as she held the tooth up in triumph. He tried to move, but the messages to his limbs fizzled out somewhere around his gut. Breathing was raw, and there was salt and copper at the back of his throat. 

His last memory was the slam of the door as she left.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is surprised to find that people are there for him when he's in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more surprise dentistry! 
> 
> Two more chapters after this. Thanks for coming this far, people! Nearly there.

John scrambled to his feet, slipped in his own blood, and fell to the floor of the changing room. He knew he had to get up, had to get moving, because breaking out of a Chinese jail would be that much harder with a gut wound. Still, lying there on the grimy tile, blood pooling cool and gelatinous between him and the floor, he was calmer and more at ease than he had been since rejoining the agency. He'd been retired, to use Mark's terms, and it was a relief. Even if he died, it was a relief. That was an odd realisation, he thought, drifting back into an eerie calm darkness again. 

He woke twice to the squeak and hiss of the door opening. Both times, frightened faces looked down on him, then quickly abandoned the room. John didn't blame them. Doing something about the white guy lying shot in his own blood would only cause them trouble. 

He lay there gathering strength to pull himself upright. Any minute now, he told himself. The first thing to do was get off the floor. Then assess the damage from the bullet, and figure out the nearest and safest way to get some first aid… 

He didn't realise he was greying out until he felt fingers slip inside his jacket. He rallied himself enough to grab the wrist, and came face to face with one of the pickpocket kids who worked full time at the airport. The kid screamed at him and lunged forward, teeth bared.

"Hey, want money?" John said, in his barely passable Mandarin. The words were muffled, and a fresh trickle of blood slipped past his lips. He swiped it on his sleeve. "I have money." 

The kid pulled back to stare sceptically at him. John didn't blame him: he must look like a talking corpse by now. 

"You could steal what I have. But I can get more." He offered the kid fifty bucks as a sweetener. "I gotta get out of here." 

The boy snatched the money as fast as lightning and bolted from the room. John sighed and tried getting himself upright again. The blood on the tiled floor had dried enough to go tacky, which was bad because he'd been lying here far too long, but good because it gave him some traction underfoot. 

He was dizzy and cold – par for the course with blood loss – but his jaw had gone past pain to numbness, and the bullet wound in his guts was bearable. The wound was still bleeding, but sluggishly. He took a fistful of paper towels and jammed them into the wound, screwing his eyes closed tight to stop from crying out, then forced himself to stand properly upright instead of hunching over. That hurt more than he expected, and the blood started pulsing from the bullet wound again. At least the pain distracted him from the bloody pulp in his mouth where the molars had been. 

He could live with this, he told himself. He wasn't giving up yet. He'd just wait a few minutes, and work on making himself look respectable first. 

John was washing his face when the door swung open again, and he spun on one heel. It was the pickpocket again, this time with a bunch of his little friends, presumably to rob John blind. John sighed and drew his weapon, then cocked it. He didn't want to shoot kids, but kids could be ruthless, especially when they were hungry and desperate. Hopefully he could put a few shots into the wall, and they'd be smart enough to see him as a threat, and therefore too much risk for relatively small returns. 

"Five hundred," the boy said. He stood as an arrowhead at the front of his group. "Up front five hundred. Five hundred later." 

John leaned a hip against the sink in an attempt at casual nonchalance, but also because his legs were giving out. 

The boy shrugged, and spoke to his friends in a low mutter. He was getting ready to leave. 

"Okay," said John, and holstered his gun. "Five hundred now, then the cash machine for more." He didn't need to, actually, he was padded with cash in various currencies, but they didn't need to know that. 

"Okay," said the kid, sounding the syllables out carefully. He held out his hand. 

John counted the notes into his palm and showed the kid that his wallet was empty now. "What have you got?" 

What they had was a wheelchair. John looked at it suspiciously, then decided that he was as good as dead already, so he might as well go in comfort. He settled himself in the chair. At the very least, a child gang of financially ambitious kids would be interesting. 

They whizzed along the corridor and back into the main causeway of the airport, passing tourists and airport maintenance in a flash. Then they took a sharp right into one of the access corridors beside the food court, which lead to the back area behind the restaurants. 

The first thing he saw was the familiar shape of his own luggage. The second was the figure of Harold Finch standing behind the suit bag and the duffle, leaning on his cane. 

"Thank you, gentleman," Harold said to the boys. "Here is the balance of our agreement." He passed out envelopes, presumably thick with cash. 

John gave the leader of the gang a narrow-eyed look, but the kid tucked his envelope inside his puffy red jacket and grinned at John unapologetically. 

"I don't have much Mandarin, but we seemed to find a middle ground for communication. They have been remarkably useful," said Harold. 

"Watch that one in the red coat," said John. "Scored a double pay-packet." He reached inside his jacket and peeled the paper towel away from his wound. It was sodden, red and heavy in his grip. 

Harold was appalled. "Are you shot?" 

John peered up at him, suddenly exhausted, now that there was someone here to help. "Why'd'you think I'm in a wheelchair?" he asked. 

"It's possible there's been something of a translation error," said Harold, and got out his phone. "I was under the impression you'd sprained your ankle." Whoever he was calling answered, and he turned a little aside from John. "Yes, this is Mr Crane. I'm afraid my bodyguard has had an altercation with a group of men outside the airport. I believe he needs medical attention; may I leave that in your care?" 

"Who was that?" said John. 

Harold lifted John's bag experimentally, and winced. "That was one of Mr Crane's personal assistants when he's in China," he said. "I know that she's an undercover agent – Chinese secret service watch all international travellers of a certain financial calibre – but she does facilitate a lot of things. On top of that, she's really very hard to shock." He eyed the state of John's suit and clucked his tongue. "That won't do, Mr Reese," he said and reached for John's suit bag. 

John hauled himself up, and leaned weak-limbed against the wall. He stood there, placid in the chill air behind the restaurants while Harold peeled the filthy suit off, then shook out a clean shirt and helped him into it. 

"It will stain, but at least the stain will be fresh," Harold said. "It will help me sell the story a little better. Please sit down; if you fall, I won't be able to lift you." 

John folded back into the wheelchair, wobbly after that small exertion. Harold took the water bottle from John's overnight bag, poured a little onto his handkerchief and used it to clean the blood off John's face. John let him, but when Harold's fingers touched his cheek over a missing tooth, John flinched and a little more blood escaped from the corner of his mouth. 

"Sorry," John said, thickly, and took the square of linen from Harold's hands to clean himself up. "It'll stop soon." 

The blood loss was making John stupid, because he couldn't make sense of Harold's expression: sympathetic, maybe? Angry? Sad? He finished cleaning his own face and then held the crumpled, blood-stained ball of linen in his palm. 

Harold took it from him, then hoisted the duffle onto John's lap, folded the suit bag, then balanced his cane on top of everything. When he went behind the chair to push, the chair didn't move at all.

"Ah," said Harold. "We have encountered a small problem, Mr Reese." He leaned his entire bodyweight on the chair and it started to roll. "Never mind. Newton's second law will save us!" 

John laughed, a soft, helpless kind of laugh that seemed to fit the absurd nature of the situation. He reached down to the wheels to help keep the chair rolling, despite the pain in his guts. There was a ridiculous levity about the whole undertaking, something infectious and gleeful about their stupid, awkward progress through the back ways of the airport. 

Harold fortunately had a plan of the camera free zones in the airport, and had planned a course for them to follow. 

"There are few places without cameras these days," he said as he pushed. "But one can organise a number of convenient malfunctions – indeed, I've taken advantage of a few blackouts organised by other parties." 

They emerged close to the pick-up bay at the front of the domestic terminal, and Harold helped John stand, once he'd piled the luggage up beside the chair. 

Ms Li, Harold's personal assistant while he was staying in China, was a neat, small woman whose shoulders nonetheless spoke of some serious sports training. The moment her black sedan appeared at the pick-up lane of the International terminal, Harold shifted easily into the personality of Mr Crane: preternaturally calm, eternally polite, and under the assumption that everything would be taken care of. John leaned on the metal railing meant to hold luggage trolleys, holding Harold's bundled up woollen scarf pressed against his abdomen. They'd left the wheelchair at the sliding door and it had already vanished back into the main terminal. An alighting passenger had bundled an elderly woman into it from their taxi, and pushed her inside. 

"All you have to do is be surly and non-communicative," Harold said, resting a hand possessively on John's shoulder.

John narrowed his eyes at Harold, trying to parse if this was a joke or an insult, and Harold said, "Yes, exactly like that." 

Ms Li hurried up to them, her heels clicking on the pavement. "Mr Crane!" she said, her accent smoothly British. "What on earth happened here?" 

"Ms Li," said Harold. "I'm afraid I led Mr Rutherford into a somewhat dangerous situation. I know you said not to go exploring but I'm afraid that I am easily distracted." He shook his head, apparently sorrowful but not exactly repentant. "I called you instead of the police because I was sure you would know what to do. I do apologise for the inconvenience. Please don't hesitate to add any excess expense to my account."

John met Ms Li's eyes, and tried to convey all the frustration that came with being responsible for an oblivious rich man. She gave him a small smile, and he knew that it would be all right. 

Before he knew it, he had been bundled off to a hospital, glossy white and expensive-looking, where a polite surgeon took a look at his injury while Harold and Ms Li spoke with a well-dressed Sub-Lieutenant from the 4th Brigade who was flanked by a cohort of police officers. The fact that Mr Crane had not brought a bodyguard with him when he entered the country seemed not to be a problem. John's Mandarin was not as adept as Kara's, but he could follow the conversation enough to pick up that Harold was easing the way with liberal applications of cash. 

The doctor was adamant that John needed surgery, and was appalled when John refused. 

"What is the problem, Mr Rutherford?" Harold detached himself from the group of police officers. His face bore an expression of detached concern, appropriate for an employee who had been injured in the line of his duties. 

"I'm not having surgery," John said. "If this guy won't sew me up, then he can give me a needle…" 

"Don't be absurd!" Apparently Harold Crane expected a certain level of control over his employees' decisions. "I will not allow you to leave this hospital without the doctor's permission, and I most certainly will not allow you to operate on yourself. There is no need to worry. It would be shameful if I were to be attacked a second time while here in Beijing. I will be perfectly safe while you're under anaesthetic, because these police officers won't leave my side for a moment. And," he rested his fingers on John's wrist. "I will be here from the moment you wake up. I promise." 

John was about to protest that it wasn't fear for himself that made him cautious, then nurses flocked around him to set up an IV line. Very shortly after that, as far as he could tell, he woke in the recovery room wearing a hospital robe and with his belly swathed in clean white bandages. Harold sat beside his bed, holding a book open with one finger, and his phone resting on the mattress beside him. Two police officers guarded the double doors. There were no other patients in the recovery ward with him, though it bustled with nurses in crisp white uniforms. 

"You're awake," said Harold, and closed his book. "How do you feel?" 

John blinked slowly, still floating, knowing this memory wouldn't stick. "Don't let me say anything," he said, his mouth dry. 

"I won't," said Harold. He reached for the bookmark tucked inside the back cover and passed it to John. 

John stared at it, trying to make the words focus. It was a white index card, turned sideway so the handwriting ran perpendicular to the blue lines. He wiped his eyes with fingers that trembled frustratingly, but then was able to find the optimum distance to read the words. They were written in blue pen – a fountain pen, from the way the ink blurred a little into the cheap card – and the upward strokes were firm and decisive. 

"Do you change your writing style for each Harold?" he asked, distracted by the idea. It was difficult to focus. He hated anaesthesia, he hated this artificial feeling of loose, easy calm. 

Harold smiled. "Check item number five," he said, and opened his book. 

John frowned and looked again at the words on the card.

_Answers to questions you have asked more than once and so, I believe, will wish to ask again:_

_1\. The area is secure. I am monitoring the security cameras.  
2\. Jessica is safe. She is staying in an apartment in Manhattan. Grace is with her.  
3\. Your weapon is secure. You gave it to me. It is in my pocket, disturbing the line of my jacket. The safety is on.  
4\. No, I don't know anything about guns but I am adept at finding manuals.  
5\. Times you have woken and asked questions: ~~three~~ ~~four~~ five  
6\. No, you haven't said anything untoward. And if you had, I would tell you.  
7\. Yes, I modify my writing. One of my personae is left-handed. _

"Okay," said John, and passed the card back to Harold. "You better eat that once we're out of here." 

"Ah." Harold took his pen from an inside pocket and, propping the card on the front of his book, added an eighth point, and amended the number of times John had woken, striking out the last. Then he tucked the card into his book, and reached for a plastic tumbler of water. When he stood to hold the straw to John's mouth, John noticed the side of his jacket facing the bed did indeed hang low, as if something very heavy sat in one pocket. 

John closed his eyes, sipped the water, which was blissfully cold on his raw throat, and fell asleep again. 

It was three days before he walked out of the hospital, as limp and bloodless as a wet towel but with a clean bill of health and two new molars which Harold assured him were not bugged. 

"I wouldn't mind if you bugged them," John said. "At least you'd have a good reason." 

Harold frowned as he got into the chauffeured car. "That's more of a Cold War thing, as far as I know. Why bug teeth these days, when we can just switch on your phone?" With this cheering thought, he directed the car to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and settled back against the leather upholstery. 

By now, Harold had fully established an identity for Mr John Rutherford, security specialist, and organised to have the gaps in his paperwork filled. 

"And back pay," said Harold, in the car, passing over Mr Rutherford's wallet. "Mr Crane is a demanding employer, and he does have his ways, but he compensates for the annoyance quite generously." 

John flicked through the cards in the wallet: cash, membership cards, three high-end credit cards and large bills in both greenbacks and yuan. 

"What happens now?" he asked, as the car pulled up in the glass-walled private atrium of the hotel. A liveried doorman hurried over to open the door. 

Harold raised his eyebrows, and John could see the person of Mr Crane sliding into place: polite, withdrawn and quietly insistent. "We behave like a rich man and his injured bodyguard," he said. "And hopefully the river of appropriate behaviour will carry us gently home."

Porters descended on them like hawks, gathering the few bags John had retained, as well as taking Harold's overcoat as they walked through the door. Ms Li met them in the lobby to update Mr Crane on the last few details of John's paperwork. Harold leaned over her tablet to sign some documents, as any businessman would, so John shifted into bodyguard mode: standing close but at an angle that politely meant he couldn't see the screen, hands easy at his side, eyes assessing potential threats in the lobby. His body protested both the posture and the concentration, and a headache rose up throbbing at the bright lights. It was a small pain, all in all, so he pushed it down as he always did and forced his body to obey. 

In the executive elevator, Harold pressed a button on his phone, then leaned over to speak low in John's ear. "It would be very useful if we could make some employer-employee small talk. For Ms Li's bugs, you see." 

John nodded. "Of course, sir," he said, with great deference. "Is there anything you'll be needing?" 

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr Rutherford. I expect you to rest and heal up." Harold raised his eyebrows at John.

"Yes, sir," John said. "I'll get right on that." 

Harold's suite was large and airy, with skylights and tall narrow windows that cast long stripes of sunlight along the pale wood floors. John's luggage had been carefully placed in one of the bedrooms, and John should have gone to unpack it, to check what had been disturbed by Ms Li's inevitable search, but instead, he sunk down onto one of the sofas in the lounge, exhausted. 

Harold pressed his finger to his lips for silence, then propped his phone on a stand on the coffee table and tapped a button. A light that had previously been red turned green, and Harold said, "There. I've randomised and looped the audio, which should take care of Ms Li's bugs. We'll be safe to speak freely now." He looked at John, worried, then brought him a bottle of water. 

"Thanks," said John, and took a few sips. 

Harold sat down opposite him and opened his laptop. "I have a flight booked for tomorrow. Is there anything you need retrieved before we leave the country?" 

John took another mouthful of water and shook his head. "Have you heard from Jess?" 

Harold frowned. "I didn't want to chance talking to Jessica directly until I had secured the room, but Grace makes an excellent intermediary and we have been talking vaguely about our mutual friend, hopefully without putting Jessica at risk. She's doing well, all things considered – I don't want to explain things that really are Jessica's to tell you, but perhaps she won't mind me saying that she's made a clean break from Mr Arndt." 

There was something to the very careful way he spoke that suggested whatever had happened between Jessica and Peter had been very uncomfortable. That, and the way Harold was fastidiously cleaning his glasses now. 

"Were you all right?" John asked. "You don't usually work in the field." Harold had said they had few people on the ground after Dillinger was killed, but the idea of Harold out in the city, putting himself at risk was startling. 

Harold nodded. "My plane was landing when Grace called to say she'd received Jessica's number again. If you hadn't contacted me, if I hadn't been so close when the Machine detected the danger Jessica was in, there wouldn't have been time to get organised and up to Vermont. I went to speak with Jessica and there was… an altercation." 

Harold said those last words slowly and carefully, as if he wanted to get the words exactly right. His smile was calm, quite the opposite of what John was suddenly feeling. Anxiety, cold and spreading in his chest, made him take a few uneasy breaths. In a strange, detached way, he realised he was more afraid of what could have happened to Jess than what had already happened to him. 

"Mr Reese?" Harold came to sit beside him on the sofa. "Here," he proffered the water again, and John took it, holding it between his palms. "I'm sorry, I didn't intend to alarm you." He put his hand on John's forearm. "Jessica is safe," he said firmly. "You helped me save her. And you could not have been there yourself, not if you'd gotten on a plane in Morocco the moment she contacted you."

John still held the water bottle, and Harold took it from him, unscrewed the lid and passed it back. John sipped the water, watching Harold. This close, he could see a fading bruise in the man's hairline, a contusion where the skin had split and had not finished healing. 

He reached out to brush it with his fingers, and Harold ducked his head out of reach. "Were you hurt?" John asked. "Did Peter do this?" 

"I walked into a very tense situation," Harold said. "Mr Arndt had been drinking. He became violent and there were a few quite frightening moments between the time that he hit me and the time that my driver could intervene." His smile became self-deprecating. "I made the driver wait outside, you see. I thought – well. There's a certain insulation wealth gives you," he said. "Sometimes I forget that it doesn't extend to those very immediate situations where people don't care about money or, indeed, anything." 

He put his glasses back on and blinked mildly at John. "Wealth has nevertheless been very useful in making sure that Jessica is legally protected, though I'm disturbed at the disparity in response between me filing a restraining order against Mr Arndt, and his wife doing the same thing. And Mr Arndt remains very, very frightened of the financial havoc I can wreak upon him with one phone call. It has provided a good incentive for him to remain as far from Jessica as he can." 

"That's good," John said, and sagged in his seat. Whatever had happened, whatever risk Jess had been in, he could worry about later. For now, she was safe. There was so much to process, and he hadn't realised how much his body hurt, from the surgery, from the tension. 

"Now," Harold said, as he walked back to his laptop. "Since I've befuddled Ms Li's listening devices, perhaps we could Skype with Grace tonight?"

"That would be great," said John. 

He had only closed his eyes for a moment, he was sure, but the next thing he knew, the sunlight had faded, and Harold was speaking to him. 

"I'm sorry to wake you, Mr Reese, but would you be offended if I just…" 

John blinked at Harold, who, pleased he was awake, lifted John's legs up onto the sofa, and draped a blanket over him. 

"I think you'll be more comfortable that way," Harold said. "I'll wake you when dinner comes up. I'm assuming you'll want to stay in?" 

John nodded, then fell asleep wondering what Harold would have done if John had said he'd rather have a night on the town. 

He woke again when Harold was on the phone, ordering dinner, and stayed awake this time long enough to pick at the shared tasting plate on the table between them. All the while, Harold worked on his laptop, glancing occasionally up at John, then back at his screen. 

When waitstaff had cleared the dishes and left, Harold stood and carried the laptop around to John's side, then sat beside him. John heaved himself upright, feeling a little better after some sleep away from the hospital. 

Grace watched from a window on the screen, and as soon as John came into view, she gave a little wave with her fingertips. Over her shoulder, John saw an apartment: drapes, overstuffed furniture, and walls crammed with art. 

"Can he hear me now?" Grace said, her voice tinny on the speakers, with that little hiccupping delay that told John Harold was using some kind of high-security link to allow them to speak. "Oh, John, honey, you look like you need a week of liver and onions to build you up again." 

At that, the screen jerked a little and Jessica appeared next to Grace. "Jesus," she said. "How much blood did you lose? Did they transfuse you?" Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she wore a loose t-shirt over sweatpants and no make-up. 

"They did," Harold said. "And apparently his blood count is normal." He squeezed John's shoulder and took out another phone, started texting on it. John heard a ping in the room where Grace and Jessica sat. Grace pulled out her own phone, looked down at the screen and grinned.

"Excuse me, you two," she said. "I just need to take this." She stood, and pushed the screen in Jess's direction, then disappeared from view. 

On John's side, Harold stepped into his own bedroom, and pulled the door closed. 

"Gosh, they're subtle," said Jess, her tone deliberately light, and her expression much more wary.

John felt the weight of guilt and misery settle on his shoulders; he had no right to force this conversation on her, and she had no obligation to face it, either. "We don't have to – I can call Harold back." 

"No," said Jess. "It's okay. Probably better to clear the air now, while we're on different continents and your partner is…do you even know where she is?" 

John shook his head. "I'm pretty sure she's going to keep as far away as she can from me, though." 

Jess snorted. "She was a piece of work, all right." Her body language was different, John thought. More forthright? No, that wasn't it. Less cautious, maybe. He caught himself immediately trying to extrapolate reasons for that, and then stopped. He didn't know what she'd been through, and he had no right to know. 

"Harold said you'd left the agency," Jess said. "That's all he'd say. I'm guessing from the bullet wound that it didn't go well." 

John shrugged. "It could have gone worse," he said. 

"Ha," said Jess. "Same." She looked down. "Thank you, for sending Harold to Vermont. It was – oh, God, it was so awkward, after the cops took Peter, just me and Harold in this wrecked motel room. But somehow it was easier to walk away with him than it would have been with someone who…" She waved towards John, unable to say the words. 

"Someone who cares about you," John said, then winced, apologetic. "I mean, of course Harold cares, but…" 

"It's okay," said Jess. "I know what you mean. I could always talk to Nathan much more than I could to Harold. Harold has a way of making himself feel distant. But in this case, it meant I didn't have to explain myself. Or be embarrassed. Have you noticed that? He's so polite, you'd think he'd be full of judgement too, but he's not." She grinned. "Also, he's kind of a badass." 

John laughed, picturing Harold ordering the Chinese police officers around with quiet, implacable authority. "Yeah. He is." Then he remembered Harold directing him on the road to rescue Nathan. He wondered briefly what it would be like, having that calm steadiness at his back all the time. 

"He showed up at our hotel," she said suddenly. "I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't knocked on the door when he did. God." She rested her head in her hands for a moment. "Peter had everything planned out. I knew something was up. I wanted to believe everything was going to be so much better, but in my gut, I knew it wasn't. That's when I called you." 

"What Kara did," John said. "If it tipped things over the edge, I…"

Jess interrupted him. "Would she have given him a gun? He had a gun. He had all these plans, this stupid suicide plan, how he was helping me, how he was doing me a favour by shooting me first so I wouldn't have to see him die."

John's stomach dropped, a horrible, cold realisation of what Harold had walked in on, what Jess had been facing alone until then. He blinked, opened his mouth to say something stupid and protective, then stopped, really considered it. He tried to fit Kara's particular brand of psychopathy to what Jess had asked. He couldn't imagine that she'd take much pleasure in encouraging Peter to kill Jess; she'd never shown much sympathy for the male bullies of the world. 

"No," he said. It helped, being analytical. It pushed back the panic of knowing Jess had been that close to death. "Honestly, she would have thought it was funnier to give you a gun. She'd have called it empowering." And what a mess that would have been for Jess, who had always been a healer. 

"What he did, that's… That's not even the worst thing," Jess said, her gaze down as she spoke, as if not meeting John's eyes made the words easier. "I keep going over and over it, and the thing that freaks me out is that I froze. I couldn't do anything until he pointed that gun at Harold. How crazy is that? I couldn't save myself – I don't know, maybe I felt I deserved it, whatever, that's for me and my therapist, I guess – but I wouldn't let him kill Harold. Once I made that decision, all the control he had wrapped around me, it was suddenly like tissue paper. And he was nothing, once I knocked the gun out of his hand. It was easy. Horribly easy, just like that." She looked up at him, her eyes dry, her jaw set. "It terrifies me, that I was that weak for that long." 

"Oh, Jess," John said. "You're not weak." The distance between them stretched vast and cold when his arms ached to hold her. "I've never thought you were weak."

Jess laughed, a little bitter, maybe, but also with relief. "You just got shot in the guts, what do you know?" 

"I'm glad you're safe," he said, finally. 

"I'm glad you are." Jess watched him through the screen. "Life isn't playing out like I hoped," she said. "But I'm starting to figure out that it's kind of like that for everyone." 

"I'm sorry," said John. "For my part in how it played out." For bringing Kara to your door, for putting you in danger, for not being there again and again. 

Jess sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I knew what your job was," she said. "You shouldn't apologise when part of the attraction for me was the risk." 

They were both watching the other now, wary and curious, like two strangers who had discovered they had a shared history. John had no idea who he was without his work; it was easy to imagine that Jess felt the same about her life. 

"Are you going to live in New York?" he asked, finally. "When you're settled, I mean." 

Jess nodded. "Yeah," she said. "There's plenty of work, it's close enough to visit Mom, when she finally forgives me for the separation." She paused for a moment, then hurried on past what was turning into another painful subject. Jessica's mother had never been a fan of John. "Are you coming back to the city?" 

"I want to," said John. "If I can. If it's safe." For Harold, for Grace and Jess. He wasn't particularly invested in his own safety, but he wouldn't lead Kara or Mark to his friends if he could. 

"Come see me," Jess said, and John heard hope in her voice. "We can talk." 

John smiled, struck with the unexpected pleasure of anticipation and excitement of seeing Jess openly, or as openly as he could on the run from the CIA. "That would be really good."

He dozed on the sofa on and off through the night, even though he had a perfectly luxurious bed. When Harold gently suggested he take the chance to be more comfortable, now that he was out of a hospital bed, John shook his head. He didn't like his chances of sleeping steadily in that big, empty bedroom, away from the pale glow of Harold's screen. 

"I'm very comfortable here," he said, shifting his legs under the blanket. "What about you? Don't you sleep?" 

Whatever Harold had been working on involved a lot of typing and a lot of waiting. "Occasionally," he said, fingers moving quietly and quickly. "But at the moment, I am trying to talk two hired security men through working a number, without letting them or the number know about it." He glanced up at John over the top of the screen. "It's a little complicated, and not particularly conducive to rest." 

John could feel his frustration, at the distance between himself and the person in danger, at the obstacles that come from using an unknowing proxy. "When we get back," he started to say, but Harold gave a little shake of his head, albeit with a smile. 

"I want to say yes," he said. "Very much – I can't imagine anyone more qualified to help me with the numbers but…" 

"I get it," John said, perhaps a little too quickly to convince Harold he was fine with a refusal. "I've got a dangerous history. I wouldn't want someone like me around the people I loved." 

Harold looked horrified and a little sad. "John, no – first of all, Grace would cheerfully throttle me for trying to protect her like that. I told you very early on that I'd learned better than to make decisions about her safety without her. No, what I'm worried about is the sense of obligation. I've found it's very complicated, this business of saving people, and it puts people in a position where they feel they have to pay back the debt. I don't want that – I don't want to see you hurt or killed because you felt you owed it to me."

John looked at the man who had recorded letters for him when he had thought he was alone, who had flown across the globe to convince him not to go nobly to his death, who had put himself in danger because John asked him to protect Jess. Who had kissed him at Dillinger's graveside because he needed to feel alive. Who was trying right now to be ridiculously noble and selfless when he didn't have to. 

John pushed himself upright and walked gingerly to Harold's side of the sofa and sat, folded his hands in his lap to keep them still. "What if this was something I wanted because working with you makes me happy? Risking my life to save people, knowing you're there at my back? I can't think of anything better." 

Harold blinked at him in the reflected light of his screen, and John saw the ghost of a smile cross his face. "All right," he said. "As soon as we're back in the city, we'll get to work."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an unexpected reunion.

They spent a week in Beijing, playing rich man and bodyguard while John's bullet wound healed up enough for him to fly. Harold Crane visited art auctions, attended long, dull financial meetings, but otherwise spent a lot of time alone in his suite with only his bodyguard for company. John watched Harold work numbers at a distance with Grace and his hired security team. Sometimes he could offer advice, and he wished he could do more but mostly he slept and recovered. By the time they left for the airport, he was well enough to hoist Harold's suitcase like a good servant, which he did, breathing in upholstery cleaner and feeling oddly reborn. 

The plane refuelled in Honolulu, and while they waited in one of the private lounges, Harold gave John an envelope and a boarding pass.

"It's probably better if we don't disembark on the mainland together," he said, in response to John's enquiring expression. "I'll expect you back in New York in a week, and we can talk then. Take a little time, enjoy the beaches." 

Harold must have seen something dubious in John's expression, because he reached out, patted John's hand with his own. "I'll see you very soon, I promise. But I think this is something you need to do, after all you've been through." Then, with a last squeeze of John's hand, Harold sent him on his way to another gate. John obeyed, albeit with a faint sense of unease. 

He opened the envelope as he walked. Inside was a wad of cash and a phone number, written on a plain white card. The international dialling code was for Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, which covered a lot of real estate, John thought. Expensive real estate. 

The trip itself was gentle, and his awareness came easily online again, marking exits and potential tails, taking note of the people around him. He got to Barbados on his John Rutherford passport with no problems, which was unsurprising given what he knew of Harold's skills by now. 

He tried to sink into the persona of Rutherford: a careful man recovering from an injury. It was good to weave through the tourists, to buy an eye-searing tropical shirt and blend in with the foot traffic, to feel the sun on his skin and not have to worry about who he was here to kill or whether they were tracking him. At one point, he received an automatic notification that Mr Crane had disembarked safely at JFK, on some IFT-owned staff management app. A knot of tension in his shoulders slipped loose at that, and he stopped at a stall to buy himself a hat. 

He wasn't game to use the phone number until he was inside the country, and could use the local exchange, so he caught a twin prop plane to Kingstown before he dialled. By the time he landed, he felt a little curl of excitement, as if he'd been sent on a treasure hunt. He was on alert, but he was having fun, he realised. It had been a while. 

Once there, and he was sure he hadn't been followed or caught anyone's eye, he tried the number. It dialled a couple of times, then opened on a slightly crackly line. 

"Harold told me you were coming," Nathan said, without preamble or greeting. "Come on over; it will be so good to see you again, John." 

John laughed into the receiver. "Did I get sent on vacation?" 

"Call it recuperation time." John could hear the smile in Nathan's voice too.

Nathan gave him directions to a place on the island of Mustique, as well as the name of a good pilot who could be trusted, given the right bribe. ("Harold set you up all right for that, didn't he?" Nathan said. "Otherwise, I can organise it, but tell me now, because this guy is not at all averse to claiming more than one bribe. He's entrepreneurial like that.") 

The plane was rickety, but John had flown in worse and sometimes low-tech was better for stealth. Watching the islands pass below, green and sparsely populated, did nothing to dispel the sense that he was on some rollicking adventure. 

Mustique had a private airstrip and Samuel the pilot gave him a lift in a bright green electric buggy to the southern end of the island. From there, John had walking directions. The road became a paved path through lush trees, and then an uphill dirt path, nonetheless well-packed by foot travel. Mustique's wild, forested exterior had been largely constructed by architects and engineers, but it made for a secure approach. Difficult for paparazzi to access, and private as only the extremely rich can afford. 

He bristled when he heard footsteps coming towards him, that thin veneer of relaxed excitement changing to proper alertness. He was reaching for the gun he wasn't carrying when Nathan's voice called out. 

"Don't shoot me!" Nathan came around the corner, hands in his pockets. He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of sunglasses propped on his head. He could have been any of the wealthy tourists John had passed, and was very far from the man who had knelt in the mud, whose teeth John had pulled. On the path, John stopped abruptly, startled by the change. 

Nathan took a few long, easy steps to make up the distance, threw out his arms and swept John into a warm and welcoming hug. "Oh, John," he said, and kissed him on the neck. "I am glad you're here. I mean that geographically as well as existentially." He pushed John away to look him up and down. "Harold was right; you do need some time convalescing." 

Nathan's skin was warm and his grip firm. John hadn't realised how much the cold and damp of that last night in the US had seeped into his core and refused to budge, despite Morocco's balmy weather, despite the muggy air in Beijing. Now, with Nathan strong and tan and well in his arms, perhaps that coldness could disperse. 

Even so, John couldn't stop himself doing a quick check of the area. "Is it safe to stop here?" For all the trees were thick, Mustique wasn't the isolated place it pretended to be. 

Nathan gave an airy wave. "It's fine – I have the place wired for video. If anyone steps on the path, I get a text from the security system." He pointed at the trunk of a large hibiscus tree. When John followed the direction, he saw a small camera unit strapped to the highest part that could still see onto the path. 

"Solar powered and very small," said Nathan, as they walked up the path together. "I've been working for a while; I've got them all over the island now. Not much gets past me." He smiled at John's expression, which must have shown the surprise he felt at Nathan's enthusiasm for working with hardware. "I have a lot of spare time, and you know, I was an engineer once. It might have been a hundred years ago, but it's like riding a bike." 

Nathan's new home was small but modern, the epitome of luxury resort living, at the end of a road overlooking the water. On the marble porch, holding a large gin and tonic, Nathan pointed out his esteemed neighbours. 

"That's Tommy Hilfiger's place," he said, indicating a white roof poking through the greenery. "And over there, that's Shania Twain." He sipped his drink and let the ice-cubes rattle in the glass. "I suppose I should be glad Harold didn't stick me on Necker Island with Richard Branson for a neighbour. I'd probably have killed and eaten him by now. Sanctimonious asshole." 

He was keeping well, to John's professional gaze: a tan suited him, though it made the scars on his cheek more prominent. His hair was overgrown and ash-streaked now he no longer had a personal stylist, but it was sun kissed and healthy. In an open-necked shirt, walking in bare feet, and surrounded by the ocean, he had an aging rock star aesthetic.

Nathan caught John's assessing gaze and waggled his eyebrows with mock-salacious meaning. "Old man's still got it," he said. Then he laughed. "It's okay – I'm not egotistical enough to believe it was my alluring self that kept you coming back for more." 

John caught his wrist and reeled him in, wrapped his arms around Nathan and squeezed. "I've got no orders to follow now, have I?" 

"I don't know," said Nathan, his voice muffled where it was pressed to John's shoulder. "I'm pretty sure Harold has a good hold on you by now." 

John kissed him, tasted lime and expensive gin, then kissed him deeper. It was good to be physically able, it was good to see Nathan alive and healthy and unafraid. He was stroking Nathan's belly and enjoying the feeling of arousal, of uncomplicated sexual want, when he noticed the earpiece tucked into Nathan's ear. 

He had a moment of confused disorientation, as his brain tried to tell him that of course Nathan had an earpiece. He had become too comfortable with their use, with the idea that Harold would be the voice on the other end of that line, though he knew this was something else. Harold's suite in Beijing was luxurious, but it was still close quarters, and John had seen no sign that Harold spoke with Nathan. Harold wouldn't have had time, not while he juggled Crane's business and worked the numbers at a distance. 

He nabbed the earpiece out, despite Nathan's sudden lunge to stop him, then held Nathan easily at bay while he slipped it into his own ear. It wasn't Harold's voice. 

> _Rutland Bay, clear. Lime Kiln Bay, clear. Macaroni Bay, two ships still moored, IMO numbers nine eight two two…_ A moment after John started listening, the words suddenly stopped, and honestly, that was the most telling thing. 

John pulled the earpiece out and glared at Nathan. He knew that voice, pieced together from audio samples; he'd heard it on a payphone in New York. "Does Harold know you're in contact with it?" 

Nathan had the grace to be abashed. "Well, to be fair, it got in contact with me," he said. "I think it was worried about me." 

John brought the earpiece close: it was silent except for the slight crackle of static. He passed the thing to Nathan, who slid it into position again. 

"Shhh. It's okay, kiddo," he said to thin air. "John won't tell Harold anything. No, he won't! I'll make him promise. Better, I'll make him pinky swear." 

Now that he knew what to look for, John spotted a camera positioned on a bookcase, and another above the front door. He turned back to Nathan, confused and a little angry that he would risk his hard won safety like this. 

Nathan held up an appeasing hand. "Wait a bit before you tear strips off me," he said. "Have another drink, and maybe lunch. Then get mad." 

John felt a frown gathering on his face, pulling muscles tight, starting a dull ache between his brows. This was a foolish thing for Nathan to do, with too much risk, in a place where it would be difficult for help to reach him swiftly. 

"Finish your drink," said Nathan, and wrapped John's fingers around the heavy tumbler. "I'll explain things after lunch." 

John drained his glass then let Nathan coax him into another one by the pool, by which time a woman arrived to bring lunch. It was lunch for two, John noted.

"Sylvia gets my order in the morning," Nathan says. "It –" he said, gesturing vaguely at his ear, " – probably tweaked the quantities when it saw you coming." 

They ate by the pool, under a striped cotton awning: grilled fish, fresh fruit, and parcels of wild rice and vegetables. The gin and the good food went a long way towards mollifying John's shock that Nathan was interacting with the Machine. 

"The problem is that Harold did a number on it, emotionally," Nathan said. "He gets crabby about the anthropomorphising, he hates that, he'll tell you for days and days that it's not alive. But there was this point when we were building it, close to the end, when I decided he was wrong about that. And once I made that leap, once I accepted it as a living being, it got clear really fast that the poor thing has had a Dickensian upbringing. Harold is my best friend, but he's a harsh parent."

John poked the last few bites of fish on his plate, trying to convince himself he had the room to comfortably stuff them in. "You both built it. Doesn't that make you its father too?" 

Nathan smirked. "I'm the good daddy," he said. "Why do you think it talks to me? Harold prefers to keep himself distant; that's his choice. Myself, I'd rather take the chance to get to know the being we both made." 

"What exactly can it do, if someone comes here to kill you?" John said. "There's not much point in seeing them coming, if they're coming in force." He put his fork down suddenly, overfull and angry at how blithe Nathan was being about this. "I might not be here the next time. I might not have anything of value to offer them." 

Nathan flinched at that. He stood, pushing his chair out with a squeak on the stone floor. "Oh, John, I'm sorry." He took John's hand, wrapped it around his. "I know it seems like I'm playing in some rich man's paradise here, but I promise I'm not letting this second chance go without a fight." He tugged gently at the connection between them. "Come on, I'll show you." 

He led John to a doorway that opened onto a stone staircase, rough hewn with worn edges, and started down, fingers still entwined in John's. "The man who built this place was a survivalist. A rich one, to be fair, but quite intensely paranoid." He patted the wall as they descended into cool, damp darkness. "He bored down into solid rock, carved himself out a bunker. The owner before me used it as a wine cellar." 

They alighted onto what felt like rock underfoot, and Nathan typed a long sequence into a keypad at chest height. In the meagre light from the top of the stairs, John saw Nathan glance at the camera above the door, as if waiting for something to happen. The underground corridor was quiet but once John's ears adjusted, he could hear a faint electronic hum. 

"Come on," Nathan said into the air. "Don't be like that. I said he won't tell." After another moment, he turned to John. "Are you going to tell Harold about this?" he asked. "I'm not sure it trusts my judgement of people; it might do better to hear it in your own words." 

John felt the weight of observation on him, standing there in the darkness, something that lit up his awareness the way he could always pick when his unit was in a sniper's scope. They weren't alone in this basement room. 

"As long as you don't put Nathan in danger, I won't tell Harold you're in communication with him," John said, at last. 

There was another few seconds of darkness, and then just as Nathan drew breath to speak again, the door in front of them unlocked and swung open. A warm gust of ozone and exhaust fan came through the doorway, and a gentle blue and green glow of monitors that made John's eyes water after so long in dim light. 

"Is this it?" John said, taking in the cavernous room filled with computer equipment. There was a table with a soldering iron and various pieces of tech strewn across the surface. The monitors showed scrolling images: some of the Mustique coastline and landing strip, some of New York City. John briefly recognised the dark, overshadowed opening to the library where Harold worked the numbers before the image was replaced with one of milling tourists at Times Square.

"The actual Machine? Oh, it wouldn't fit in here," Nathan said. "No, this is like a holiday home, if you'll forgive the whimsy. It keeps data here, we're working on some things together." He let go of John and hefted a security camera from the table, trailing cables. "It's helping me regain a few skills I let slip while I was a CEO."

John remembered the list of bays he had heard on the earpiece: Rutland, Limekiln, Macaroni. They were all mooring points on the island. 

"It monitors the coastline for you?" he asked. "How many cameras did you put up, exactly?" 

Nathan grinned. "I managed – well, it managed, really – to get in on the solar power money spill for the island, and then we gave a grant to a team of well-meaning volunteer ecologists who installed the cameras on the coast. I see a lot of sea turtles. But also, I know where every cell phone is here, who disembarks from planes, the movement of the buggies. Just like in New York, I suppose. We did have to upgrade bandwidth for the island, but it's easy to write that off as some one-per-center's little pet project. There's a lot of that here." 

John followed the cameras through another cycle of images. What Nathan said made sense, and it was reassuring to know that this place was secure, that Nathan was security conscious. Except that the images weren't just of Mustique; he recognised the corridors of the Pentagon, a wide avenue from a residential street in Silicon Valley, a conference room in one of the UN buildings. 

He felt observed again, but this time it was Nathan, watching him watch the monitors flicker from place to place. 

"Sooner or later," Nathan said, "Someone will start work on the next AI project. They shut down all the other surveillance research projects when we succeeded with the Machine – Able Truth, Fair Run, Stellar Wind, a bunch of others – but that doesn't mean they can't be reactivated. Or someone could cook up something completely novel." He pointed at the screen. "So we're observing and we're planning so we'll be ready. When it shows up, we can make sure it's no threat to the Machine."

"You're planning to, what? Kill it?" John was surprised; he had not thought Nathan could be bloodthirsty. Still, it wasn't his survival at stake here, he supposed. 

"Not if we don't have to," Nathan said, though he wasn't as shocked by the idea as John had expected. "So far, we're working on a strategy to influence it, make sure that it has the chance to develop a moral compass, like the Machine did." He smiled at John, tentative for the first time since John had met him. "It's weird to be here on this island, planning for the future of another form of intelligence. Life deals some strange twists, I've learned." 

"Yeah," John said, as people milled around Shibuya on the screen. The distance between Mustique and New York was a dull ache. "Can it show me Harold?" 

He'd barely finished speaking when an image flashed up on the monitor in front of him: Harold, at a diner, eating eggs, a book open beside his plate. It was Saturday morning in New York, though Harold seemed dressed for work.

"I know that diner," said Nathan, from behind John. "He likes the eggs there. Man of habits, he is, for all he's so paranoid about his identity." He propped his chin on John's shoulder to watch with him. 

Someone – a woman, from the long, slim fingers and the enamelled bracelet – reached across from the other side of the table, and snatched a piece of toast from Harold's plate. Harold glanced up briefly from his book, gave a fond smile to the other person, then pushed the plate in her direction so she could help herself to the rest of his breakfast. 

"That will be Grace," Nathan said, and sighed. "I know this is a trivial use of a billion dollar operation, but it helps with the homesickness. Every day I'm glad to be alive and living in paradise, but I miss New York. Even when everyone's knee-deep in slush." 

You miss the people, John thought, but he didn't say it. Instead, he tipped his head to brush Nathan's cheek for a moment. Then, because apparently he also was a glutton for punishment, he said, "Can you show me Jessica?" 

The next screen blinked away from Trafalgar Square to footage from a security camera that was monitoring an indoor flea market. It zoomed and zoomed again, until John saw Jessica, holding up a decorative cushion, turning it over, talking to the vendor. She'd obviously peeled off some layers, because she held a big coat under her arm, with a woollen hat tucked into one pocket. 

Nathan must have sensed what John felt, because he wrapped his arms around John and held him tight. "It might not be a perfect outcome," he said, as the monitors flickered and jumped. "But we're all alive, and we're all moving forward. That's a really good thing, John. Come on, let me show you my private beach." 

The beach was private because it was inaccessible except by boat, or via the secret tunnel the original owner of Nathan's house had carved through the rock face. Nathan threw open a steel bulkhead at the base of another set of stairs and they began walking steeply downhill on carved rock, lit occasionally by incandescent globes on a single wire. 

"This floods in a king tide," Nathan said, as they walked. "But even in storm season it never gets higher than here." He showed John a mark on the walls, where salt water had stained the rock a long time ago. Privately, the bulkhead was pleasing to John as a solid barrier to infiltration by things other than seawater. 

The sound of surf grew louder, and the ambient light brighter as the tunnel opened up into a natural cavern in the cliff face. Long hanging vines and scrubby bushes obscured the cave mouth so it wasn't visible from the water. When John stepped out onto the sand, he had to raise his hand to shield his eyes. He'd become accustomed to the darkness. 

"Here," Nathan threw him a towel and a pair of sunglasses from an unplugged chest freezer at the cave opening. He pulled his shirt over his head and hung it on a hook jammed into the rock, then cast off his pants. "Come and swim." 

The beach was as isolated as promised, and the water was warm and clear. John floated on his back, letting the heat seep into his bones, and his muscles relax. Nathan drifted beside him, just at fingertip's distance, and the only thing John could hear with his head half under the water was the gentle wash of waves. For the first time he could remember – for years, maybe – he felt stillness. 

Nathan touched his shoulder and John opened his eyes to find that the sun had sunk low, and the light was turning everything deep gold. 

"We'd better go in before it gets dark," Nathan said. He stood waist deep in the water, and his shadow drifted and rippled long behind him. John pushed his feet down, felt them sink into the sand, and reached for Nathan to kiss him. 

Their skin had dried salt-rough. John's fingers snagged in Nathan's hair, and then they were pressed together, hip-high in the ocean. Nathan held him tight at bicep and hip, as if he expected John to vanish. 

"John," he said, when they pulled apart. He cupped John's jaw, rubbing the salt away with a thumb, then running that thumb along John's lip. 

They made their way clumsily across the sand in the fading light, and for John it was ridiculously indulgent to be ungainly and vulnerable. Nobody was coming to kill him or judge him, there were no standards to live up to, nobody to seduce or hurt or kill. There was just Nathan, crouching down to brush sand off their legs with his towel, laughing as John, impatient and turned on, played with Nathan's stupid long rock star hair. 

Nathan fucked him in his huge bed swathed with gauzy hangings, held him tight and pushed into him hard, the way Jess had shown him John liked all those months ago. John sighed and arched under him, grasped for Nathan's shoulders and hair until, exasperated, Nathan caught his hands in one of his and pressed them down to the pillow above. 

John rode him later in the night, astride Nathan's body in the ridiculous fairy tale bed, rising and falling with Nathan inside him and moonlight streaming over them both. 

"So beautiful," Nathan said, when the pace slowed a little. He stroked John's cheek, his jaw, brushed against his nipples. Impatient, John pushed down against him, took him in as deep as his body would allow. 

Nathan groaned and laughed, clutching hard on John's hips. "Most ignoble of deaths," he said, then gasped as John arched his back to clench against him. John came with Nathan inside him, Nathan stroking his cock, and the far-off sound of the ocean gasping with him. 

It was too hot to sleep wrapped in each other, but Nathan kept contact through the night: an arm across John's chest, or his forehead to John's shoulder blade. By morning, though, it had cooled enough that John slept pressed against Nathan, under a cotton blanket one of them had dragged over their bodies some time before dawn. 

John woke early, but lay still in Nathan's arms for a long time, listening to the waves and sensing the darkness thin. He felt Nathan move into wakefulness with gradual ease, fingers tracing patterns on John's skin, lips brushing John's head where it was in reach. 

When the light was undeniably filled with gold and pink and the gulls had begun calling, Nathan pulled John close and kissed his forehead. "You'll take care of Harold, won't you?" His voice was still husky with sleep. 

The mention of Harold's name brought an image of the man to John's mind: hat and overcoat, collar turned up against the January wind, and blue eyes that saw everything. John imagined Harold looking into him with that gaze, imagined Harold wanting him, imagined them in bed together like this. He shivered despite the warmth in the air. 

Nathan stroked the skin along John's shoulder blade, where it had goose pimpled at the mention of Harold's name. "Ah," he said, knowingly. "Maybe I should be having this conversation with Harold, instead." 

John pushed himself upright on one elbow, appalled at the idea, unsure if Nathan was teasing or serious. "Please don't," he said, imagining Harold's horrified expression.

"I'm joking," Nathan said. "Well, mostly joking. Harold does have this tendency to get lost in the theoretical. He can get very distant from humankind." 

Perhaps a little defensively, John said, "I haven't seen him do that. He sure got down in the trenches when it came to helping Jessica." 

Nathan cupped John's cheek. "I'm sorry. And I'm glad," he said. "I'm glad he's not locking himself away as much as he used to."

John settled down into the bed and let Nathan curl around his body again. "People change," he said. "I've changed since you and I first met." It was true, he realised. He and Jess were vastly different people now. It hadn't been the path he would have chosen for either of them, but they were both stronger now. 

Breakfast was fruit and more fish, with excellent coffee brought up from one of the restaurants in an electric buggy. Nathan threw himself into the meal with gusto, talking easily with the staff who cleared the dishes from last night, and set the table for breakfast. When they were gone, John took a mouthful of coffee to fortify himself for awkwardness.

"Harold and I aren't – we're not seeing each other," he said. And then, because he'd opened this can of worms and might as well get some answers, he said, "Isn't Harold with Grace?" 

Nathan speared a piece of mango with his fork and popped it into his mouth. "It's complicated," he said, and rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Mark Zuckerberg. You made it so much easier to explain things." 

"That's not actually much of an explanation," said John. 

"We were fighting, before the explosion, Harold and I," Nathan said. "We've known each other for decades, so we had lots of ammunition to use on each other. I knew he was engaged. I didn't know who he was engaged to. That's not what we fought over," Nathan added quickly. "We fought about the Machine, and compartmentalisation, and what safety can cost us. But when that bomb went off it burned all the chaff away. What was left was more than friendship, more than partnership. It's hard to explain."

John had seen the footage: Nathan speaking into a phone camera, sitting on a gurney in the triage centre, remarkably lucid considering his face was blistered and bleeding, and his shirt torn open where they used the defibrillators. In the video, paramedics fussed over him, and he batted them off. He'd obviously grabbed the nearest phone and started broadcasting as fast as possible, the very first sally in his campaign of life-saving public prominence. Amidst the chaos, it made for an oddly commanding performance.

"I'm Nathan Ingram, and I'm at the 34th Ferry Terminal," he had said into a stranger's FriendCzar chat window streaming directly online. "I don't believe this was a terrorist attack – if it was, then who are these men? How were they on site so quickly?" The viewpoint flashed crazily then stabilised on the faces of two obvious government stooges, who, startled at being recorded, foolishly turned their faces away from the camera, thereby confirming the shadiness of their presence. "There's something not right about this explosion," Nathan had said. "If anything happens, if someone tries to shut me up for saying so, then you know I was right. Don't let them cover it up." 

It had been nicely done: non-specific enough about the threat that journalists didn't connect it solely to him or his company – after all, IFT had been more or less missing from the global stage since shortly after 9/11 – but eerie and conspiratorial enough to generate lots of interest. 

"Grace made it to the triage centre. I heard her calling out for Harold. And Harold? He tried to sell me on disappearing, on abandoning every connection to the world." said Nathan. He rolled his eyes then pushed the plate of fish in John's direction. "Eat this. I'm pretty sure you need the protein," he said. "Fortunately Harold blacked out mid-argument and I took over. I got Grace into the ambulance with him – thank God Grace is Grace. Who else can take on that kind of explanation in the middle of a disaster? 'Hi, I'm guessing you're Harold's fiancée? Here he is. I don't know what name he uses with you but just roll with whatever he's got in his wallet, okay?'" He laughed, and it was somehow less bitter than before. 

"So, then it was surgery for me, surgery for Harold, and neither of us sure if they'd kill us under anaesthetic." He waved vaguely at the scars on his face. "You know what it's like, when they put you under and you honestly don't know if your strategy will to pay off, or if you're never going to wake up again." 

John remembered the hospital in Beijing, remembered waking with Harold at his bedside. He didn't answer Nathan; he didn't want to interrupt, so he ate his fish and listened. 

Nathan's expression was sad and self-deprecating, and he seemed to be casting off his own demons with this conversation as much as he was filling John in on the history of his friendship with Harold. 

"So, yes, Harold and Grace. Yes, Harold and me, back in the day, though not for a while. Grace sees other people – Harold too, I think, but he's still secretive to the point where it's pathological. I guess I can't blame him. It's a weird way for the three of us to live, saving numbers, trying not to be killed. Kind of a fishbowl situation. No boundaries."

Nathan picked up his coffee cup and peered into it, then reached for the coffee pot to find that empty too. "Time to get to work, then," he said, and pushed up from the table. 

Work seemed to be the further installation of cameras, and the maintenance of ones already installed. In the underground bunker, Nathan loaded up a rucksack and slung a toolbelt around his waist, then threw one towards John. 

"Since you're here," he said. "I could use someone to plant some in the restaurants – it's tricky for me to go in there." He touched the scars. "Too recognisable. Are you up for a little low-level infiltration?" 

"Infiltration" was perhaps a little exaggerated: the places that were closed were easily accessed with a screwdriver and some judicious jiggling of the lock. John had the basics in electronics for just this kind of spywork, and Nathan talked John through anything more complex than that via the earpiece. Nathan sat on the hood of the little electric buggy, elbows propped on his knees, hidden in the close forest that grew right up to the edge of what passed for a town on the island. 

Nathan talked easily to John, but also carried on a conversation with the Machine at the same time, switching between the two with little apparent difficulty. For John, it got a little tangled sometimes, but there was no panic or pressure. It was strangely satisfying to do this easy work as Nathan chatted in his ear. If John was uncertain of whose conversation he was hearing, he simply waited where he was, standing on a table in a darkened dining room, or at the back of a crowd in a busy café until it was his turn again. 

"Those two? No, they said they'd be flying in every weekend, remember? There's no need to worry," Nathan said. Then, "I've got that feed coming in now, John. For the next one, try that long piece of driftwood nailed above the bar. Angle the lens so I can see the register." And, "No, it's your turn. You tell me one. It will be fine! Go on! Okay, who's there? Amos who?" This was followed by a soft guffaw. "See? It's a classic for a reason." 

Balanced on the long wooden bar, John fixed a camera into the twisted branch of driftwood with a screwdriver. "Are you teaching it knock-knock jokes?" he asked. 

"I'm a dad," said Nathan. "The jokes just pour out of me. And that camera is active now – how about one over the door?" 

John jumped down from the bar, pleased with how little the wound in his gut complained. "Why would an artificial intelligence need to know about dad jokes? Why would it want to?" 

Nathan sighed, but it was a wistful sound, not an infuriated one. John wondered if this was an argument he'd had with Harold in the past. "Maybe you'd want your all-seeing AI to have a sense of humour? It might see and hear everything, it might understand the meaning, but nobody has taken the time to teach it nuance."

The last camera in place, John closed the door behind him and moved quietly through the scrub to the bright green buggy, hoping to surprise Nathan. His body felt good, so good after the misery of being gut shot and left to die. It had been a long, long time since John had felt playful. 

"Is this an ambush?" Nathan said at his silent approach, without looking up from his phone. "You do realise you just spent the last few hours helping me make this place the most monitored resort in the Caribbean…" 

Before he could finish, John reached the buggy, stepped up on the fender to straddle Nathan's legs and kiss him. The buggy heaved under the weight of both their bodies, threatening to tip, and Nathan, sputtering and laughing, pushed John down onto solid ground. "Let's go home," he said. "Quickly." 

Later, with afternoon sun angling over the bed, John lay against Nathan's chest, his body pleasantly slack and warm. Nathan's arms encircled John's chest, and his lips idly brushed the short hair at the back of John's neck. It was good for a long time, but when the shadows were lengthening, John felt the mood shift. He knew how this would go – he'd seen people in various permutations of witness protection and how their resolve slowly crumbled, as their families moved on, had lives without them. Nathan was a father, was an extrovert who loved his friends, who thrived on physical contact and shared happiness.

"You're a people person," said John. He thought of the places they'd been today, how Nathan had carefully avoided crowds, how it had been John who went into the busy cafés to plant the cameras. "Are you going to be okay? All by yourself here." 

Nathan moved beneath him, stuffed another pillow behind his head to prop himself up. "I'm living in paradise, John. Why wouldn't I be okay?" His voice was blithe but John could hear the desperate growing loneliness behind it. Eventually, Nathan's patient acceptance of this situation would fail, and then he'd either take his own life or let himself be discovered so that some agency or another would take him out instead. 

"What about your son? Does he know?" 

There was a long, long silence. "It's better that he doesn't," Nathan said. "I talked it over with Olivia – she knows, she won't have any problems keeping it quiet. But Will? Eventually he'll fall in love with someone, and I hope it's with the kind of person you want to tell everything about your life. I'd rather he had that connection, instead of secrets. I'd rather he raise his kids with someone who knows him completely. He's got his mom. And if he loses his inheritance thanks to my actions, I know he's got his rich Uncle Harold." 

John reached for Nathan's hand, squeezed it tight. 

"I've had a good life. I've done things I'm proud of. And not so proud of. At this point, I don't really get to choose the lifestyle I prefer," Nathan said. "Lives were in danger because of my decisions. You got shot because of my decisions; you nearly had to shoot me because of the things I did." He brushed the gauze netting of his enormous bed. "This isn't so bad, as far as prisons go." He tugged at John's arm until he sat upright and Nathan could kiss his knuckles. "Life doesn't work out the way you expect. It's okay. And I know exactly how lucky I am, John, I promise." He cupped John's cheek, fingers moving gently, then pulled him close to kiss him. "I know you have to leave soon. But I'll see you again." 

John hoped Nathan believed his own words. Maybe in the future, when Nathan's conviction was slipping, John could ask the Machine to play them back. For now, he leaned into that kiss, made it something deeper and rougher, and arched up over Nathan's body to grind against him. Nathan laughed, then groaned and closed his eyes.

"Or I could die now," he said, breathless. 

Later, in the dark, they lay together, still damp with sweat where their skin was touching. The breeze was cooler, though, as it moved the gauze hangings. 

"He's very fond of you," Nathan said, into the quiet. He kissed John's shoulder blade, let his lips linger there. "Harold doesn't trust easily. Not like me – I'll give my heart to pretty much anyone who says they like me. But Harold? You have to have a certain clarity of purpose to catch his attention." 

John shifted so that his whole body aligned along Nathan's. Through the big square window, the moonlight reflected on the water in broken lines. Each breath Nathan took was warm on his skin. 

"Did you?" John asked, eventually, when he was sure that contemplating his own clarity would only make him crazy. "Have clarity of purpose, I mean." 

Nathan sighed, warm and ticklish against John's back. "I did once. Not for a long time, but yeah. The early years, building the company, building the industry to support the company – for that stuff you need the kind of fire that draws Harold in. Maybe I'm on the way to finding that clarity again." His words were slowing now, as sleep started to overcome him. "I wanted to tell you that because you probably feel lost now. But you're not. Lost, I mean." 

John watched the ocean moving and shifting under the moon, thought of the constant scramble his life had devolved into before Kara shot him. He hoped that Nathan was right, that he had climbed up out of that uncertainty towards something more solid.

When Nathan had fallen asleep, John eased himself out of bed and grabbed some pants. Then he padded barefoot on the cool marble floor to that stone staircase, circling down and down to the bunker. 

"I'll go wake him if you insist," he said to the camera over the door. After a moment, the electronic lock turned green with a soft beep, and John pushed the door open, walked into the darkness of the basement.

Inside, the air was warm and dry thanks to the stacks of servers singing softly to themselves. The monitors were blank, of course, because there was nobody here to see anything. John sat on one of the chairs and crooked a knee up under his chin. The room was quiet but busy, from the electronic hum to the gentle click and whir of the server banks. Even the darkened screens gave the impression of someone working industriously.

"You found us, didn't you?" he asked into the quiet. "Me and Jess." 

There was no spoken response – there was no response at all for a long while – but one of the screens blinked alive with grainy security cam footage, an airport lounge. John was so good at camouflage that he couldn't immediately find his own dark head amongst the others, but Jessica, brave and beautiful in her white coat, was easy to pick out as she walked up to him at the coffee stand. 

John watched her talk to him, watched her reach for his wrist, to pull him close and whisper in his ear. His memory was so clear, crystallised by the way this moment had changed everything. He mouthed the words in time with her.

"I don't care," Jess said, all those years ago. "I don't. Be with me now, just for tonight." And then she had led him, hand in hers, to some airport hotel room, and they'd soaked themselves in the other's presence. 

"She was always the braver one," John said into the quiet room. "I hope you can understand that. It's important to see the difference between strong and brave." 

There was no answer; apparently he and Harold's Machine were not on speaking terms yet, but there was peace in the room, and with it, John hoped, a little trust. 

He sat for a while in the office chair, and finally the monitors blinked on one by one. As the images lined up, they formed a panoramic view of the island coastline, water indigo in the moonlight. A yacht drifted slowly from one screen to the next, the deck twinkling with sprays of fairy lights. 

It was oddly companionable, sitting in the reflected light of the monitors. Meditative, even. John was surprised at how peaceful it was, despite the enormity of the Machine, of its existence, of its abilities. There was stillness here and John was surprised to find that there could be stillness in him, even if it was something reflected from a larger source. 

"All right," he said, eventually. "I'll help you keep them safe for as long as I can."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrounded by old friends, John learns a new way of working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Oh, wow, thank you so much for reading along and commenting, it was great to know people were enjoying the story. 
> 
> Thank you so much to talkingtothesky who gave me a much needed boost at the start of writing this fic, and to lilacsigil who calmly and patiently edited the whole thing without strangling me.

New York in February was as unpleasant a change from a tropical island as John could imagine, but he stepped off the plane with a pleasant thrill of anticipation. He went straight from the airport to Times Square and found the nearest point to the centre. Once there, he planted himself, standing still in front of the many cameras. The place bustled and teemed with tourists, swirling in every direction, shouting in a dozen languages, and he saw the movement of the crowds like the waves of the ocean, imagined the gaze of the Machine like a ripple of light on the water. For the first time, he felt a solidity to his existence, that the waves moved around him rather than carrying him. He was grounded, and it was a good thing. 

"I'm here," he said, after a while. "I'm ready to work." 

At the door to the library, he hesitated, his chest suddenly tight. This was it, this was the beginning. It was suddenly a terrifying prospect: he had always imagined being able to help people, part of the reason he had walked away from Jessica so he could help people. It had made him into quite the opposite. 

He wanted to start this properly, wanted it so badly that just before he opened the door, he considered retreating and vanishing back into the crowd. Then he scanned the building façade, found the camera that he was certain would be there, and watched the red diode blink slowly. Jessica was here, Harold was here. Nathan believed in him, as did Grace. He was wanted and respected and perhaps he was even loved. He could do this. 

Harold waited for him at the top of the stairs, looking worriedly down. He was in his waistcoat, sleeves rolled up, and when John appeared through the door, it was just in time to see that expression of concern turn to a pleased smile. The rightness of being here pulled at John, gathered him up and pushed him forward at a run. 

"Welcome home, Mr Reese. I wasn't expecting you immediately - I thought you might take some time to recover from the jetlag," Harold said with a smile, as John came up the stairs two at a time. When John got to the top, he took Harold's face in his hands and kissed him, breathed with him, let the final piece of himself fall into place, solid and safe and good. 

"Well," Harold said, when John finally let go. He stroked John's hand against his cheek. "Or we could do that, I suppose." 

 

It took a while to settle, even with Harold at his back, in his ear, in his bed, it still took a while for John to completely understand what it meant to save lives every day, to really appreciate how good it would feel. And how difficult it would be to take care not to hurt anyone. Difficult but fulfilling. 

The first number, Diane Hansen, was a tricky prospect, an awkward push-pull between his old life and his new. John overshot a few decisions, took actions that Harold found too drastic (and got worryingly, confusingly upset about.) They argued over the guns, they argued over Detective Fusco, and each time, as John was certain that he'd made a ruin of the situation, Harold had taken him by the shoulders and brought their faces close. 

"You'll find your way to it, I promise." He kissed John's knuckles, which he had only just taped together again after a fight. "Gentleness is not a thing you've been allowed to work with for a long time, but it is in you. I've seen it." 

John leaned his head against Harold's and closed his eyes. Harold was right. John could adapt. He was pretty sure he could adapt. At least he could try until his energy was spent. 

He talked it over with Jessica, once Diane Hansen had been escorted to an interview room with a number of FBI agents. 

"Harold says it's going to take a bit to put the brakes on," he said, sitting cross-legged at her coffee table, which was spread with opened boxes of take-out. "He doesn't like the violence, and I get that, but there's this point where training takes over, where I just find the fastest way to the solution. And the fastest way gets kinda bloody." 

Jess sat on the sofa, her own legs crossed, comfy in tracks, hair dragged into a pony-tail. "Makes sense," she said. "Imagine a surgeon having to work without a scalpel. In a crisis you're going to reach for the familiar strategies at first. But you're smart, you'll figure out new ways." 

Worried, John filled his mouth with chicken and chewed. 

Jess's place was small but secure; John approved of the doorman, and the elevator, which required a key. 

"I was going to be so noble," Jess said, the first time he came to visit. "I was going to tell Harold I would go it alone, but…" she waved at the walls to express her amazement at NYC rental costs. 

"It's okay," said John, leaning a hip on the sofa so she could squeeze past to the kitchen to make coffee. "You don't have to justify anything to anyone." 

They weren't together, not as a couple at least, not at the moment, but John thought that the friendship they had put together was stronger anyway. Better, definitely, than the tenuous, fragile connection they'd kept alive through Jess's marriage. 

"It's not that I don't want to fuck your brains out," Jess said, the second time he came over. He lay on the sofa with her that time, resting his head in her lap while they watched TV. John had a lot of TV to catch up on, it turned out, and Jess was taking the opportunity to bring him up to date. 

Jess played with his hair while they watched some show with zombies. "You are definitely high on the list of people whose brains I long to fuck out, if only I had the urge to fuck anything," she said. 

John rolled onto his back and caught her hand so he could kiss it. "Don't get me wrong: I loved having my brains fucked out. But I love this too. I love having time, and I love being here." 

 

He was walking in another killer's footsteps, investigating the hit on the Whitaker family when a realisation washed over him, wave-like, warm and sweetly euphoric. _You do not have to do these things anymore. Ever._ What this killer had done, John would never have to do. Never make a family disappear, never kill a child. Never torture a parent. Never again. 

He had to stop a moment, stare at the sky until his pulse slowed down and his eyes stopped watering. Then he was back at it, undoing as best he could the harm that had been done to Theresa Whitaker. 

For that reason, and others, this case was difficult. Harold came too close to danger for John's peace of mind. And ultimately, there was no recompense large enough to make up for the murder of Theresa's family. Still, the profound rightness of it, the fact that he was a part of this, it made his head spin. 

"You're happy," Harold said, that night. He touched a finger to the corner of John's eye, followed it with a kiss. "I like the way it looks on your face." 

John rolled on his side to watch Harold. "I think I am happy?" he said, and was surprised when it came out as a question.

Harold laughed softly, kissed John's mouth before he'd finished, so that John felt the laughter against his skin. "I should be sad that you're not entirely sure what happy is," Harold said. "But I can't be, not when you glow like this." 

Harold said these things, these strange and lovely things that made John curl towards him in the bed, made him want to be as close as possible to the person who believed in him this much. 

 

"I should report you for lurking," Jess said when he joined the queue behind her at the food truck, but she was smiling. She was in Paediatrics this week, so her scrubs were pale blue with little teddy bears on them. Standing in the queue, looking at the nape of her neck above the line of frolicking bears gave John an inappropriate frisson of arousal. 

Jess got herself coffee and a croissant that she nibbled on while he made his order, then she walked with him to a seat in the plaza outside the hospital doors. 

"You're working a number, aren't you?" she said. "I'm starting to see it now." She brushed the back of his hand where it rested on the glass table. "You have this look when you're protecting someone. Like a guard dog on patrol. Ears pricked, eyes keen." 

"Like a guard dog?" John said, mock-horrified, just as Harold said, in his ear, "I do see the similarities, actually. In the most complimentary way, of course."

John realised he was staring at Jess as a goofy grin started to spread across his face. He was here, he was busy, he was using his skills to make people safe. Harold was nearby and always at his back with support. Jess was alive and got to do the job she loved and excelled at. To distract himself he reached out and snatched the corner of her croissant, broke it off and ate it. 

Jess let him, then took a bite herself. "Don't worry; it's only obvious to someone who knows you." She looked him up and down, measuring. "Otherwise, you look –" she pursed her lips "– good."

John brushed crumbs off his lapel, preening a little, to make her laugh. "I'm gathering intel," he said. "We're just starting out." 

Harold spoke up in his ear. "Jessica might have intel of her own on our number." 

John brought up Megan Tillman's image on his phone and showed it to Jess. 

"I know she's one of the ER doctors," said Jess. "I haven't had much contact with her – only when we get an ER referral or post-op patient. She's good. Intuitive, takes the right kind of risks. Listens to her nurses, which says a lot about how she practices." She sipped her coffee and gazed over John's shoulder, thoughtful. "It's pretty easy to score shifts in ER; nurses are always happy to trade out. And nobody gossips like an ER nurse, it shouldn't be too hard to find out if she's in trouble." 

"No," John said, automatically, and immediately regretted it because under the table, Jess landed a kick right on his shin. "Ow!" he said, and rubbed his leg. Even with rubber-soled shoes, that hurt. 

"Harold, between us, who has the higher chance of gathering intel in a busy ER?" Jess said, holding her croissant out of John's reach. "A nurse or an ex-spy?" 

Harold was sensibly silent on this matter. John felt a little abandoned. 

"There's injured everywhere, most of them spilling out bodily fluids of various kinds – how are you with projectile vomit and sick babies, John? – then there's angry people, scared people, gangbangers, criminals. There's cops and paramedics and firemen, and that's on a quiet night. I've worked ER," she said. "I know how to stay safe. I know where the guards are, to duck when the bullets fly, how to talk down angry, high or drunk patients waving guns. I think I'm okay doing a little undercover so you can help a doctor." 

John held up his hands in surrender. "You're right. I'm sorry. I thought I was out of the habit of being over-protective. Maybe guard dog duty brings out the worst in me." 

Jess was still angry, he could tell, but hopefully his apology mollified her a little. 

Her phone buzzed and she glanced at it, then sighed and stood. "I have to get back to the ward," she said. "You – " she pointed at John, her voice authoritarian suddenly – "behave yourself." 

John grinned at her, mildly turned on by the tone of her voice. "Cross my heart," he said. 

She smiled back, and gave him the rest of her croissant. Before she left, she bent down to the ear without the Bluetooth earpiece. "Good boy," she whispered, and ruffled his hair like he was a big, obedient dog. 

John sat for a few moments after she left, to eat the croissant and gather his composure. 

> _Thanks for calling me on my bullshit, _John texted later, outside Andrew Benton's apartment. _I know perfectly well you can look after yourself. I really was in work mode.___

____

____

> _That's no excuse,_ he added, later, outside the apartment building where the Toreros were living. _I'm just trying to explain. I know you're the expert on staying safe in a hospital. And, honestly, I'm pretty scared of baby vomit._

_> Jerk,_ came the reply this time. And then, _You're lucky you're so pretty._

__John tucked his phone away with a little smile. Ahead of him, Fusco was scurrying nervously into the building to face the cartel. John let his smile widen into a bare-toothed grin and cracked his knuckles._ _

__

__Harold had his head pillowed on John's chest, as he idly stroked John's softening cock. "Are you and Jessica going to resume your previous relationship?" he asked, as casually as if he were discussing a cleaning roster or the weather._ _

__John twitched against Harold's touch; he was still sensitive, the sweat still cooling on his skin. They'd had a rare afternoon in bed, and Harold had made the most of it, making John come and come again, delighting in the way he responded, even when he was begging off from exhaustion._ _

__"Uh," John said, and then, "Nghh," as Harold tightened around him, squeezed experimentally._ _

Harold propped awkwardly up on one elbow to kiss him on the cheek, sweet and tender, and as unlike what he was doing to John's cock as could be imagined. "I felt it was only fair to clarify things between us. You are very welcome to see other people – were you aware that I did?" 

__How was he getting hard again? John thrust upward into Harold's circling fingers and thumb. "Sure, ngh. I thought – with Grace."__

____

____

__"Among others," Harold said, and bit John's ear. John moaned and spilled again, a tiny spurt that gave little indication of the pleasure rolling through his body. When his breathing had settled and he could see again, he took Harold's hand and held it, so he couldn't be distracted again.__

____

____

__"Why did you tell me that now?" he asked, into the quiet of the room. "Were you worried that I would be angry? Jealous?" He tried to imagine being jealous of Grace, and failed miserably. Grace was a delight, an extrovert, someone who loved closeness and physical contact and the broad differences across the human race. It was difficult to picture her content with only one person._ _

__Harold interlocked their fingers, formed a complicated mesh, then kissed them. "I suppose, if you were to take it badly, a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down."_ _

__"That was quite the spoonful, Harold." John let his head flop back on the pillow. "I don't know. Maybe. If she's happy, I'm happy. I can't ask for more than that."_ _

__

__Grace had been the one who made sure that John had down time, that he didn't work numbers seven days a week. She had come into the library one morning to find John sleeping on the sofa for the eighth day running, and she had made a noise of outrage so loud that it set him on his feet and reaching for a gun._ _

__"Come with me," she said, and held out her hand, imperious. John checked over his shoulder and met Harold's eyes._ _

__Harold shrugged, as if to say that he couldn't intervene. He was like this about Grace a great deal, furiously careful never to step in the way of her decisions. It made John wonder how that hospital bed conversation after the bombing had played out. Grace can't have been pleased at the discovery that Harold had kept her separate from the rest of his life._ _

__In the library, John let Grace haul him up and drag him down to the street. She stopped in front of a long-shuttered boutique and glared into the security camera above the door._ _

__"Look at him," she said, gripping his chin so it faced the camera. "Look how you've run him down."_ _

__"Um," said John. He didn't think he looked so bad._ _

__Grace ignored him, expansive in her fury. "He needs rest. I know you learned bad habits from Harold, but real humans need to rest their bodies. Not just for the barest minimum that biology requires, but real, honest rest and recovery. So, one day a week, you're going to either find a number that I can manage on my own, or you're going to keep quiet."_ _

__"Grace," said John. He knew how this went. "People will die."_ _

__Grace turned his face to look at hers. "More people will die if you burn out," she said. "And don't give me that sad, noble expression. You're not a racehorse; you don't have to run until your heart explodes."_ _

__John had just been telling himself that he was fine, that he could handle this pace easily, that it was so much gentler than his work for the CIA. This must have shown on his face because Grace let go her grip on his chin and cupped his cheek instead._ _

__"Oh, honey. Just because this is better than before does not mean you have to accept it wholesale, okay?" She wrapped her arms around him, and after a confused moment, he returned the gesture._ _

__Grace let him go, and took his hand again. "Come on, I'll take you out for lunch."_ _

__Being taken out for lunch by Grace usually meant getting food from a random food truck and sitting down to eat it in a place that interested her. A lot of times, this meant Central Park, either crowd watching or at some event that had caught her attention. As this became a weekly tradition, John saw a lot of lunchtime theatre, amateur art displays and free musical performances. In early spring, he spent an afternoon with Grace in Queens, strolling under sweeping cherry trees._ _

__"Isn't it amazing how many shades of pink you can see? We need more words for pink." Grace said. "There aren't as many trees here as there are in Brooklyn, but they let you get right up under the blossoms." To demonstrate, she stood with a low-hanging spray trailing over one shoulder. "Isn't it beautiful? Like being inside a cloud just as the sun goes down." She reeled him in so the blossoms brushed against his skin, fragrant and delicate. He breathed in the perfume, watched the dappled light dance on the two of them._ _

__This was unlike anything he'd experienced in the past decade: a quiet moment of beauty for beauty's sake. Something shared with a friend, uncomplicated and easy. He closed his eyes and let the petals fall on his face. Beside him, Grace laughed with the delight of it all, and John felt shadows fall away. Not all of them – that would never happen – but more and more as time went on, the further he got from the agency._ _

__When John got back to the library, Harold brushed the remaining petals from his shoulders._ _

__"I see you had a festive time." There was no judgement in his voice, no disapproval, but those things were scrupulously absent, John thought, as if they'd been carefully erased from Harold's voice. He felt a prickle of worry, and even that was an easier thing, because the worry was for Harold, not about an immediate threat._ _

__"It was interesting," he said, keeping his voice carefully light. "Here, bought you a peace offering." He passed Harold a packet of tea he'd picked up from one of the vendors, a brown paper envelope stamped with a duck. "Look, it even has a bird on it."_ _

__Harold took it the parcel and turned it over to read the label. "A peace offering is not required, Mr Reese."_ _

__John didn't say anything about the overly formal greeting. He sat down on the sofa. "Kinda feels like it is," he said. "But I'm not sure why, after everything you said about seeing other people."_ _

__Harold sat down suddenly beside him. "I know. I know. I'm as surprised as you. I thought I would be so sanguine about you getting close to Grace."_ _

__John took pity on him, slipped an arm across his shoulder. "We really are just friends, Harold."_ _

__"I'm glad that you're friends, I really am," Harold said. "But I can't help thinking that should you – the two of you – become something more, then, well." He paused a moment, then spoke quickly, tumbling the words out before his courage gave up. "If that were to happen, and if the two of you were comfortable with the idea, I would like to be a part of it."_ _

__Harold's body was tense, John could feel it all along his shoulders, where John's arm rested. "I mean, I can't speak for Grace," he said, gently stroking Harold's arm. "But I'm not hating that suggestion." Then he grinned, and put his hand on Harold's knee suggestively. "What happened to that spoonful of sugar with the difficult discussions?" he said._ _

__"That would be lovely, Mr Reese," Harold closed his eyes with an appreciative sigh and leaned back on the sofa, legs slightly apart. "If you would be kind as to oblige."_ _

__

__John woke to the chirrup of a text coming in, then another on Harold's phone next to it. Beside him, Harold was still asleep, rolled on his good side, one knee propped on a memory foam pillow. They'd only been home for a few hours after getting their number safely onto a plane, and it had been a rough thirty-six hours before that._ _

__John stretched an arm over Harold's sleeping form and grabbed his own phone. The text was from Grace. Perpetually a morning person – "Not really, but the light, you know?" – she had been getting the majority of calls when a new number came in. John wondered what her sketch had been for this one: he was building a little collection, tucking each one away in the front cover of a book on the Impressionists.__

____

____

> _I GOT ANOTHER ONE,_ she said, and then _Oops! Shouting! Sorry!_ and the blushing emoji. 

__John called her, and when she answered, he heard traffic in the background. She was a little out of breath._ _

__"Hey!" she said. He heard her heels on the road, crisp and purposeful. "I know you guys had a late night. Let me head to the library and get this one puzzled out. I can start the basics, at least."_ _

__"Thanks," said John. "We could use the sleep."_ _

__Harold shifted against him, blinking awake. John ran a finger down his back and over his hip; Harold reached up and caught his hand, squeezed it._ _

__"We could use the sleep, could we?" Harold said, his voice hoarse._ _

__John bent to kiss his shoulder blade, moved up his back to the base of his neck, breathed air warm and ticklish over his collarbone. He felt happy, a warm and energetic kind of happy, knowing there would be a person to save, knowing he was with someone he loved and who loved him back._ _

__"We could use the sleep," he said, against Harold's skin. "Later." He moved his hand, still wrapped in Harold's, over Harold's belly and down to his cock, warm and hard under the blankets._ _

__Harold groaned and thrust against him. "Later," he agreed, reaching for John, pulling him close to kiss him._ _

__It wasn't really so much later – after all, a new number meant a new person in danger – but John slept a few more hours, this time with his head on Harold's chest and Harold's fingers in his hair. When he woke, he felt better rested, his muscles easy and relaxed against Harold's body._ _

__"Good morning," said Harold. He gently stroked the hair at the nape of John's neck, smoothing the short hair there. "Grace has deciphered the name of our new number. Are you ready to go to work?"_ _

__John sighed and stretched his legs under the blankets, warm next to Harold's. "Always," he said. "What's up first?"_ _

__Harold showed him a photo of a woman, slender and stylishly, if conservatively, dressed. "She's a therapist," he said. "I think it's time you dealt with some of your issues. I've made an appointment for you this afternoon."_ _

__John pushed himself upright and took the phone from Harold. "Doctor Caroline Turing," he said, looking at the image, assembling his cover identity in his mind, getting ready to work. "She doesn't look like she's going to be trouble."_ _


End file.
